Kids Without Jackets
by SolarRose29
Summary: They were a couple of kids from Brooklyn, with nothing but each other to get them through the long days and cold nights.
1. Youth

This will be a collection of unrelated one shots. I found them on a flash drive (since my laptop crashed, I've resorted to pulling fics out of storage) but I figure they are still presentable.

The title is from the song Get Up by Barcelona.

* * *

You had me worried. That seems to be one of your many talents. I guess some things never change. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to turn around and not find you? Whether it's the noisy streets of Brooklyn or the bombed-out remains of an Austrian village, I still get that uneasy chill when I can't find you. We both know how much trouble you get into without me there to get you out of it. Regardless, I'm glad you're here. Though, now that I can get a better look at your face, I wish I could have been wherever you were before you finally made it to camp.

An hour ago, I was nearly panicking because no one had seen you since we launched our assault. I was beginning to think Hydra had finally landed a lucky shot. But of course, that wasn't the case. Just when I had all but given up on you, you came rushing into camp, something clutched in your arms. I suppose I should correct myself. Not something. Someone-Private Joseph Lotta.

At first, all I could see was the blood. There was so much of it. But you already know about the blood. It's part of the reason your blue eyes are a stormy gray. When I first saw it, I thought it was yours. I confess, the thought was enough to make me want to vomit. I soon discovered that none of it was yours. It was all his. Little Private Joseph Lotta. You were talking to him. Over the shouts of the other Commandos and the doctors that immediately swarmed you, I couldn't hear all of what you were saying but from what I could pick out, it sounded like you two were talking about his girl. You were putting into use that bit of field medicine we learned from Doctor Henley. You kept him conscious, focused on his surroundings, fighting off that fatal sleep. I wish that had been enough.

You rub at your nose. I know you're upset. I would be too if I carried Private Joseph Lotta from the rubble to the camp, and stayed with him while the medics tried to save him. I told you to leave. But you wouldn't go. You stubborn son of a gun. Refusing to leave, you held his hand while the doctors cut him open, spilling more blood. He screamed something awful. You never even flinched. Instead, you just kept on talking to him, murmuring out a conversation about the future he and his girl could have. He didn't hear you at first, but near the end, I think he did and it calmed him down. Eventually, he quit struggling against the doctors. Eventually, they quit struggling against fate.

Must be real itchy, your nose. The way you're going at would make it seem like you got your hay fever back. After the serum and in the middle of Winter. It's a good thing the other men have enough sense to leave us alone. It hit you hard. It was bound to happen though. You can't save everyone, not matter how hard you try. Private Joseph Lotta was the first soldier lost under your command. It's a bit of a shock for you. But you're actually handling it pretty well. I don't know how your managing to stay this calm, but somehow you are.

Private Joseph Lotta bled out. He lost his leg when a bomb went off under him. That was not your fault. There was no way we could have known the town was booby-trapped. Even if we had, we would have gone ahead anyway. Everyone else made it out okay. That's really something. But of course you don't want to think about the people who're safe. You have to go and attach yourself to the one you couldn't save. You have to understand that there was nothing you could have done.

A shuddering breath comes in through your nose and out your mouth. I think you might be unraveling. But the next breath is steadier, in and out the nose only. You turn to look up at me, eyes moist but not tearful. They look like the sidewalk after the Autumn rain. A stray current of air twists through your hair.

"He was so young," you mutter.

I nod. "So are you."

You look startled. I think you've forgotten about that. They give you a bigger body, put you in charge of an army and you think you've got the world ahead of you and the years behind. This is why I didn't want you to come. You shouldn't be here because you don't belong here. You're a naive, hopeful child and war is for cold, hardened men. Too much caring makes you vulnerable. Your heart's too big and war too violent. I never wanted you to lose that.

Why do you think I bought you all those lollies? And the trip to Coney Island? The baseball games? What do you think all those crinkled cinema ticket stubs were for? I was trying to protect you, protect your childhood. You grew up when money was tight and food was scarce. A lot of folks were out of jobs and out of hope. But you had a little spark and that was something worth saving. So I grabbed my pocket money and brought you along with me to the candy shop so you could chew licorice and pop bubble gum, and never lose your sense of fun. The blood and guns, mud and bombs-well, they rip that right out of you. I can see it. Don't think you can fool me. I've known you your whole life. You're changing right in front of me. And there ain't a thing I can do to stop it. I tried so hard, back in the States. Hell, even the law tried to keep you there. Your determination found a way around that, didn't it? What year did you write on your enlistment form? How old did you say you were? How much did you lie? Did you say you were nineteen? Twenty? Twenty-one? You only just turned eighteen four months ago. You've been fighting this war for five.

I'm furious that you did that. But that's a conversation that's waited this long and will have to wait even longer because you look so down right now that I can't help but try to make you feel better.

"So am I," I amend. Although I, at least, am twenty.

You blink at me.

"So's half the army." I swing a hand at the tents huddled on the ground. "Old Schmidt and all his ancient goons don't stand a chance against such spry kids."

You grin with that serious smile. It's painful for me to see. The war's changed you. It's changed your lungs, your arms and your legs. Changed your fingers and your eyes. It's changed your mouth and that's the thing I hate the most. Because even when you smile, you're still frowning.

"Come on," I stand, boots pressing deeper into the soggy earth. "Let's get you something to eat."

You want to refuse. You don't feel like eating. But your huge appetite says otherwise and you reluctantly climb to your feet. You tower over me and I miss the days when I could sling an arm around your shoulders. But you sling your arm over mine and I find that I don't mind that too much.


	2. Responsibility

Whoo-hoo! Another update! The reason why-I'm visiting out of state relatives. So guess who has internet? ;)

* * *

"…At which point Sgt. Hamilton will flank them, forcing them through this bottleneck here, into the city square, where we will pound them with an artillery barrage before doing a final sweep to pick off survivors," Steve finished his battle plan, pushing off the map table he had been pointing and gesturing at for the past half hour while his eager audience had crowded around him, listening with rapt attention.

"Well, shucks, there's a Brooklyn boy with a head on his shoulders!" Sgt. Hamilton boomed, his ruddy face lit with approval.

Loud laughter followed and Steve blushed, hoping that the yellow light of the war room would hide the tell-tale pink. Beneath the ruckus of the gathered troops, Steve could hear Bucky's stifled chuckles. He should have known better than to think he could hide anything from his lifelong pal.

"It sounds like a great plan! A sure win tomorrow!" Hamilton's deep voice carried over the crowd of troops and they cheered more forcefully. "Let's get us some drinks, boys! To victory!" he shouted.

Steve's head jerked up and he raised a hand to calm the storm of thunderous applause. "You'll have to put a hold on those drinks," he observed as soon as he was able to be heard.

Many pairs of eyebrows shot upward.

"Whaddya mean?" Hamilton regarded him suspiciously.

Keeping an outward visage of firm command, Steve didn't betray the discomfort he felt internally. His next policy would not be met well but he would not back down from it.

"No alcohol before a battle." Steve's voice was quiet, yet strong.

A chorus of outraged protests burst out.

"How're the men supposed to fight if they've got no juice in 'em?" Hamilton opposed.

Steve smiled, unapologetic. "They'll find a way."

"Come now, not even one?" Hamilton tried bargaining.

Shaking his head, Steve would not relent. "At least it'll give them something to look forward to."

With displeasure in his eyes, Hamilton scrutinized the man before him. Steve stared back unflinchingly. He would not budge on this point. He knew what drink could do to a person and he would not allow the men under his command to fight while the lingering alcohol slowed their movements and dulled their senses. Keeping alive was hard enough sober, he would not permit them try it inhibited. Not waiting for Hamilton's approval or dismissal, Steve turned to address the men.

"Sleep tonight. We fight in the morning. And then you can drink until you can't drink anymore after we've blasted every last Hydra agent from the city!" he rallied.

The men gave a final cheer before dispersing, sufficiently placated. Hamilton waited until the troops had left before coming up to Steve.

"It's a good plan," he grunted. "Both of them," he grudgingly added before hastily exiting.

Bucky shook his head, a grin on his face. "I still can't believe they all listen to you like that."

With a final glance over his shoulder to ensure they were alone, Steve blew out a breath and planted his palms on the table, slumping and leaning his weight on his arms. Bucky's grin faded.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you're second guessing yourself." Bucky rolled his eyes. "It really is a good plan, Steve."

"It's not that," Steve mumbled, tired eyes settling on a random point of the map.

"What is it, then?" Bucky drew nearer, attempting to make eye contact.

A second heavy sigh tumbled out Steve's lips and he rocked back and forth on his arms. Bucky waited, knowing from experience that Steve would talk as soon as he had collected his thoughts. His patience was rewarded, for, in a moment, Steve continued.

"Did you see how young they were?" he questioned, voice hoarse.

"Who? The 501st?" Bucky clarified.

Steve gave a slight nod.

"Of course." Bucky shrugged. "They're fresh from the States. Shipped out last week. Just got here a couple days ago."

"I know that!" Steve snapped.

Bucky drew back, unused to Steve's temper. It had been a rare occasion in New York. Steve barely ever lost it and he hardly raised his voice when he did. But war changed people. Steve was sometimes moody now and Bucky tried hard to keep up with his friend's abrupt mood swings. It could be a challenge. During the briefing, Steve had been the confident leader, cool-headed, in control and determined. A moment ago, he was the weary warrior. Now he lashed out before falling silent, shoulders drooping and head bowed. He seemed…defeated, in a way. And the battle hadn't even begun yet. Tentatively, Bucky placed a hand on the stooped shoulders. Steve had never been one for physical contact but it was the only way Bucky knew how to communicate when he couldn't find the words. He hoped Steve would understand the unspoken message.

"I'm sorry," Steve murmured, relaxing under the gesture. "I didn't mean to yell at you but, gosh, Buck. I don't think any of them are even old enough to drink."

"Like you are?" Bucky snorted.

Steve gave him a half-hearted glare. "You know I haven't had a drop."

"What about all those bars we've been to since this thing began, huh?" Bucky prodded.

"If you weren't so drunk yourself, you'd have seen that I never actually drink anything," Steve pointed out, a small smile trying its best to lighten up the edges of his mouth.

Bucky had no reply but a sheepish grin. The moment passed and Steve's mood dipped into moroseness once more.

"Some of them won't get that drink," he exhaled.

Understanding dawned on Bucky and he squeezed his hand in order to grip Steve's shoulder. "But most of them will."

Steve's tightly clenched fist dropped suddenly onto the table, pounding into the wood. Pens rattled to the floor, paperweights shook, table legs trembled and Bucky's hand flew off the tension-riddled mound of muscle.

"Damn it, Bucky! That's not good enough!" Steve yelled.

The echo of his voice traveled around the room. Bucky swallowed. Over and over, Steve's fist slowly lifted off the tabletop a few centimeters before returning to its original position. Bucky watched its movement while he listened to Steve's heavy breathing fill his ears.

"I just…I…" Steve seemed unaware of his hand's motion, eyes locked on the markers he had been manipulating across the map only minutes before. "Each of them has a family who is expecting them to come home. Hell, the men themselves wanna get back. And I'm supposed to…" he trailed off, face despondent.

A twinge of pity pricked at Bucky and he winced. He hadn't known the extent to which Steve was affected by his position of leadership. Steve was too caring, too compassionate and took too much responsibility. Bucky knew firsthand the burden of leadership. But he also knew that it didn't have to be one that drove a man to despair.

"Hey, Steve, look at me," he called softly.

Steve mutely stared at the metal pieces on the paper map, seeing not numbers but faces. Coffins instead of statistics.

"Steve." Bucky grabbed his upper arm and tugged until Steve was forced to look at him. "It's not your job to make sure everyone gets out alive." Steve's mouth opened but Bucky interrupted. "You're just supposed to think up the best plan that gives everyone the best chance at keeping themselves safe. Okay? You can't save everyone and you shouldn't try." He held up a hand as Steve began to argue. "No. You need to listen to me. You know what it's like out there, when the bombs are falling and the guns are firing. There's no way for anyone to be able to say where those bullets are going. It's all chance, Steve. Or fate. Or whatever you want to call it. Some people make it out okay and some don't. We know that. We all knew that when we signed up. But we chose to come anyway. You just have to remember that we value our freedom more than our lives. We're fighting because it's the right thing to do and if we're dying for the right thing then that's not a bad way to go. Right? Steve?" Bucky gave the arm he held a rough shake.

Doubt was plain in Steve's face and the weight of responsibility still hid in his eyes but he nodded at Bucky's words. A sad smile lifted one side of his mouth.

"Thanks, Buck." He looked up at the ceiling. "I guess sometimes…it's just hard, you know?" He dropped his eyes and met Bucky's gaze.

Unsure whether Steve meant it was hard to be a leader or hard to believe the concepts Bucky had just told him, Bucky didn't know, so he settled for merely nodding. "I know, Steve."

Straightening, Steve gave Bucky one final grateful look, accompanied by a slap to the shoulder. The doubt and fear were gone. The Captain was back. He opened the door and stepped out, grinning at the shouts of recognition as if he hadn't just broken down and been put back together by his childhood friend. Bucky looked down at the map. Captain America might have had all the answers but he got most of them from Bucky Barnes.


	3. Expectations

To all of you wonderful people who are generous enough to leave me a review in this or any other fic-thank you so much! :D  
I try and reply to all of you individually but sometimes I accidentally end up skipping someone and I hate to do that. So this is for each and every one of you who takes the time to click that button and type a quick note that brings a big smile to my face. Thanks again! :)

* * *

After a hardy pat on the back from Dugan in encouragement, Bucky stumbled forward several steps, nearly falling on his face. He grimaced and rubbed a hand along what was sure to become a bruise. As he neared his destination, the conversation of the other Howling Commandos faded. His boots stepped in prints that had been left by hundreds of other boots. Stopping in front of a large tent, he paused. There wasn't really a door to knock on, even if there was such a thing as privacy in the army. Shrugging, he entered without any preamble.

"Hey, Steve, the men are hungry and we were wondering if…" he trailed off as he caught sight of his friend.

Upon his entrance, Steve had jerked upright from a kneeling position. Blue eyes wide in surprise, Steve hastily snatched up a threadbare blanket, throwing it around his shoulders, effectively covering his exposed chest and abdomen. Bucky would have rolled his eyes if it hadn't been for the guilt written all over Steve's face.

"You know you don't have to cover up on my account." He aimed for levity but it came out as poorly disguised concern. "You don't have anything I haven't seen before."

"Y-you let in all the cold air," Steve stuttered over his excuse.

This time, Bucky did roll his eyes. "Come on, Steve, it's just as cold in here as it is out there. And why aren't you dressed anyway? It's way past breakfast time. The men are starving and so am I. Hurry up so we go eat already."

"You fellas go on ahead. I'll catch up." Steve tipped his chin in the direction of the tent flap.

"Okay. What's wrong?" Bucky inquired, not believing Steve's nonchalant routine.

"Nothing," Steve replied, albeit a little too quickly.

Raising an eyebrow, Bucky scrutinized him closely. "What's wrong?" he repeated.

"Nothing," Steve insisted. "Go on, I'll be there in a minute."

"I don't get you." Bucky crossed his arms, accusatory. "You're the one who's always up before the crack of dawn, shoving us out of bed. But now, the day after we finally push Hydra out of Austria, you sleep in and lounge around while the rest of us stand out in the freezing cold, listening to our stomachs growl instead of enjoying a well-earned victory meal."

"It's not like that!" Steve protested.

"Oh, it's not?" Bucky shot back. "Because that's sure what it looks like."

"Well, it isn't!"

"Then what is it?!" Bucky shouted, invading further into the tent.

Steve looked away. "Nothing."

Bucky threw his hands up. "There you go again. It's obviously not nothing. Either you're sleeping in like a hypocrite or you're suddenly slacking off your precious schedule."

"Bucky," Steve exhaled tiredly. "I'm not being a hypocrite or a slacker…Trust me when I say that."

"It's kind of hard to trust you when you don't trust me!" Bucky clenched his fists.

Steve's jaw dropped. "I do trust you! I've always trusted you, Buck."

"Then why won't you tell me what's really going on?" Bucky glared.

"I….can't." Steve refused to meet his gaze, rubbing a knuckle against the tip of his nose.

"See?!" Bucky leaped forward. "You don't trust me!" He shoved Steve in the chest.

Gasping, Steve collapsed, slamming his side into the corner of the table. The blanket fell from his body and it left Bucky staring.

"I'm-I didn't mean-damn, Steve. Why didn't you tell me about this?" Wanting to apologize but unable to leave the real issue alone, Bucky froze above Steve, staring down at the blood leaking from a previous injury.

Grinding his teeth, Steve pushed one hand over the gash in his side, red liquid sliding warm between his fingers, while he used his other hand to lever himself into a sitting position. "It's fine."

"That doesn't look very good," Bucky observed, cringing at Steve's heavy breathing. He glanced up into the captain's pale face. "When did you get that?"

"Yesterday morning," Steve grunted.

Bucky's eyes widened. "But that means…Why the hell didn't you tell anyone?! You mean you were fighting with…with that?"

"Obviously I was able to," Steve defended, wincing as he applied pressure to the freshly reopened wound.

"What happened?" Bucky questioned quietly.

Steve shrugged. "Hydra must have gotten a lucky shot."

"That's from a bullet?" Bucky queried softly.

He received a nod in reply. Feeling sick at the thought of how close he had come to losing his friend, Bucky bit his lip to keep from vomiting.

"It's only a graze," Steve placated. The blood dripping down his stomach disagreed.

"Why-?" Bucky swallowed back bile. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Steve turned troubled eyes up to him. "If the men knew…it'd be bad for morale."

The queasy feeling in Bucky's stomach boiled into anger. "What?"

"If they knew I'd been hit, it would've brought them down. I couldn't do that to them. Not before a major battle," Steve explained.

"You can't go into a major battle with a wound like that, Steve!" Bucky countered, disregarding the fact that Steve already had. "Morale be damned. You were injured and you didn't tell anyone because you're too proud to-"

Steve interrupted hotly, "I didn't tell anyone because if I had, they would have pulled me from duty. You know Phillips. He would have. I had to be there. It was my plan, my men. My responsibility."

"Steve, you were bleeding, for heaven's sake!" Bucky tossed an agitated hand toward the site of the wound. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

"No, it doesn't!" Steve gained his feet in one swift motion.

Chests heaving, the two stared at each other. Anger swirled through the enclosed space, thick and oppressive.

"Um…Captain?" A hesitant voice called from outside.

Steve twitched, eyes never leaving Bucky's. "Yes, Falsworth?"

"Is everything alright?" the Brit queried.

"Everything's fine," Steve smoothed the tension from his voice and Bucky himself would have believed him if he hadn't been the one Steve was arguing with.

"You men go ahead and have breakfast. Barnes and I will join you in a moment," Steve invited.

"Very well," Falsworth agreed and the sound of his footsteps was audible in the silence.

Bucky didn't relent in his glare. "I'm not done talking to you, Rogers."

"I know," Steve sighed, deflating. "But can we talk about it later? The men are expecting us and-"

"Is everything about the men?" Bucky snapped.

Steve's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You get shot and you don't tell anyone because of what the men will think. You're bleeding again and you won't say anything because of the men. You should be in the hospital but instead you want to go to breakfast because the men are expecting you." Bucky didn't bother keeping the venom out of his voice. "When did what everyone else think of you matter so much that you won't even take care of yourself?"

"Since I grew fourteen inches, gained one hundred and seventy pounds of muscle, and a rank in the army." Steve bowed his head wearily.

"Hey, listen to me. They don't own you." Bucky ducked his head to catch Steve's eye. "They. Do not. Own you."

Steve shrugged. "They made me what I am."

"You made you who you are," Bucky persisted. "Five rejects and you still went on to try at that stupid fair." He shook his head. "They had the tech but you had the heart."

Steve shifted self-consciously, a secretly delighted grin sneaking onto the left side of his mouth.

"You're a person first. A soldier after," Bucky stated wholeheartedly. "That means that when you get hit, you see the damn doctor."


	4. Enough

There were nights when the horrible wet coughs that shook Steve's tiny chest and the low grumbles of Bucky's hollow stomach became the lullaby that abducted their consciousness. Being asleep was easier. It was easier to forget about pneumonia and malnutrition when the mind was locked away from the body. So sometimes, when Bucky's shift at the factory finally ended and he slipped into the drafty walls of the cramped apartment long after the sun had set and Steve sat up waiting for him, sketching on old newspapers with a stub of coal even though his arms were sore with fever chills, they did little more than drag themselves to bed and watch their breath mist cold in the dark.

They didn't prepare supper-they had no food.

They didn't tune in to the Lone Ranger-they had no radio.

They didn't talk about the future-they had no hope.

But they heard the sounds of a suffering body so near to their own and they knew they were not alone and for them, that was enough. Having a shoulder to punch and a hand to shake and an eye to catch was enough.

Those were enough.

Friendship was enough.

Brotherhood was enough.


	5. Family

I apologize in advance if my French is incorrect. Unfortunately, I do not speak French and so I used Google Translate instead.

* * *

While the fire crackled and snapped up the dry logs, the men put out their hands to its heat. A chilly wind puffed through the circle of bodies, raising gooseflesh across necks. The troops grumbled and pulled their coat collars higher as quickly as they could and returned their outstretched palms to the orange blaze.

"It's damn cold tonight," Morita declared.

"It always is," Falsworth countered.

"I hate Europe," Bucky complained, blowing moist breath through his clammy fingers and rubbing them furiously to garner warmth from the ensuing friction.

"Nothing makes a man crave his home more than being away from it." Dugan sagely tipped his head, bowler hat rustling over the bristles of red hair perched on his skull.

"Amen," Jones seconded quietly.

"Can't wait to see my boys again." Wistfully sipping from a tin cup of rationed coffee, Dugan stared up at the pine needles blocking the stars and imagined the faces of his children.

"How old?" Steve questioned softly.

"Got one's that nine and one that's just turned twelve," Dugan replied, eyes floating down to rest on his captain. "I suppose John's almost a man now," he added thoughtfully.

A heaviness settled on the soldiers as they strove to ignore the irrefutable fact that war made adults out of all children.

"He's the man of the house, now that I'm away," Dugan revealed, rubbing at the mustache dwarfing his lips. "Or, man of the farm I should say," he chuckled to himself.

Dernier glanced up then. "Ma soeur s'occupe de la ferme en mon absence," he excitedly chattered.

The other men looked to Jones for the translation.

"He says his sister is taking care of their farm while he's away," Jones supplied.

"A farm, eh?" Dugan repeated, a companionable twinkle in his gaze.

"Correcte, monsieur," Dernier nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, I don't have a farm, but I have got the missus waiting for me back in Sheffield," Falsworth inserted, leaning back and smiling with the thought.

"How about you, Jones?" Steve added another stick to the inferno and watched the shadows mingle on the private's face.

"She's not mine yet, sir." Jones flashed white teeth. "But as soon as this war's over, I'm going home and I'm going to put a ring on her finger." He grinned again. "She promised she'd wait."

A hand slunk through the night air as Morita raised his right forearm. "Same."

"Marriage is the greatest blessing and the worst trial a man can have," Dugan asserted.

Falsworth laughed and turned to Bucky. "All right, Barnes, we've all said our bit. Now it's your turn."

"Turn for what?" Bucky stalled.

"Tell us about the family you have waiting," Dugan answered cheerily.

"You got a girl?" Morita pressed.

"Or maybe a mother?" Jones suggested.

"Soeur?" Dernier queried.

"Aw, hell." Bucky cut off their well meaning prompts and tossed a twig onto the burning embers. He glanced at the curious faces around him. Jerking his head to indicate the captain beside him, Bucky mumbled. "He's the only family I've got."

Surprise rippled through the others.

"Not even a pair of grandparents depending on your army wages?" Falsworth posed one more question.

Bucky shook his head. "Nah, Steve's the only family I've ever had." Twisting to the side, he caught the gaze of the captain, who quickly averted his eyes while a blush crept over his cheeks. "Only family I ever needed," Bucky added softly.

Shifting self-consciously, Steve shyly dug through the dirt with the broken end of an abandoned stick. As the other men moved on to other topics of conversation, Steve finally chanced a glance at Bucky. With a toothless smile straddling the line between rueful and sincere, Bucky edged closer to him.

"It's true," Bucky whispered conspiratorially, nudging Steve's knee.

Not knowing what else to do with his pleased embarrassment, Steve settled for clapping a hand against Bucky's shoulder and squeezing it firmly.


	6. Insult

Stomping mud all over the clean floor, Bucky and Steve entered the tiny house, laughing the whole way. As the patter of rain against the wooden stairs was muffled by the closing door, Steve's chuckles downgraded into coughs. Concern shot through Bucky and he quickly sobered.

"You alright?" he inquired, palm hovering uncertainly mere inches above Steve's back.

Bent double with the strength of the fit, Steve waved a hand to indicate that his friend's attention was unwarranted. After a minute which Bucky spent cursing himself for dragging Steve out in the rain, the blond straightened and gave his companion a reassuring grin. "Never better."

At those words, Bucky internally cringed. To his ears they sounded like 'I will never get better.' And that was more true than either of them was willing to admit. Steve was well into his teenage years, yet he was still plagued with the same maladies he had fallen victim to as a child. Everyone had been so optimistic that he would outgrow the racing heart, the coughing fits, the frequent fevers. That was years ago. Since then, it appeared that Steve's health had only deteriorated. Bucky knew the statistics. People this sick didn't live to adulthood. It was a thought that scared him every time Steve sneezed.

"Buck?" Steve called.

Bucky started. He had been unaware of his temporary lapse in attention.

"Are you still with me?" Steve teased, crossing the short distance from the back door to the little kitchen.

"Yeah, I just…" Bucky trailed off and shrugged.

"And everyone says you've got all the brains." Steve shook his head dramatically before disappearing into the cupboard.

"Who says that?' Bucky stepped forward, knowing that Steve was relentlessly mocked by others with all manner of insults because of his small size.

Expertly selecting a soup pot from the drawer and, with practiced ease, positioning it under the leak in the kitchen roof, Steve raised one shoulder and let it drop. "You know."

"No, I don't know," Bucky argued, thinking back on how he hadn't bloodied anyone's nose recently.

Steve collected the few mugs from their designated shelf and moved around Bucky, setting the cups in various places around the shack in order to catch the raindrops that slid through holes in the ceiling. "Well, you seem to be living your life just fine without knowing so there's really no point in telling you."

He sounded cheerful but Bucky knew that every degrading comment hung around Steve's neck like a millstone.

"Come on, Steve. Who was it?" he inquired.

"It's not a big deal, Bucky." Steve returned to the kitchen and pulled out a couple of plates.

"Was it Bartholomew Stanford?" Bucky accused.

Sections of fresh bread were placed on glassware while Steve shook his head and raised blue eyes to Bucky. "Let it go, Buck. I was only kidding around."

The tight lines around the corners of his mouth and the set of his jaw told Bucky that it was more than a joke. "It was Old Grouch Thompson, wasn't it?"

"Bucky," Steve sighed.

"I knew it." Bucky clenched his fist. "I'm going to march right into his store and-"

"Bucky," Steve interrupted. "Drop it."

Turning to fully look Steve in the face, Bucky protested, "Steve, you can't let him treat you like that."

"Sticks and stones," Steve reminded, drawing the tub of butter from the fridge.

"I wouldn't mind breaking a few of his bones," Bucky grunted, dropping into one of the wobbly chairs at the table.

"That would make you no better than him," Steve reprimanded, spreading a generous helping of butter over one of the pieces of bread before handing the plate to Bucky.

"I don't like the thought of him talking to you like that," Bucky grumbled around a mouthful of his dinner, for which he received a stern glance from Steve. He sheepishly swallowed, appeasing his friend.

"Don't worry about me," Steve wiped his hands on his pants. "I can take care of myself."

"Oh yeah, that sounds familiar," Bucky mumbled, rolling his eyes fondly. Those words always preceded a busted lip and a nasty shiner. When Steve opened his mouth to defend himself, Bucky stood and slugged him on the upper arm. "I know, I know. You're a heavyweight champ."

"Get off me, you jerk," Steve ordered, the traces of a smile swinging on the edges of his lips.

"Yes, sir!" Bucky gave a sloppy faux salute.


	7. Growth

One of these days I'll get back to writing things that are longer than 500 words :P  
I'd like to thank my two little nephews for this one. Yes, 'Sysha' and 'Bisis', I'm talking about you. May you always be as adorable as you are now =)

* * *

Peering over the edge of his cup at the tiny form of his friend, Bucky took a swallow of water, while the day's school lesson played over in his mind. Swinging his legs under the table, he watched as Steve struggled to climb into the chair at the dining room table. Despite the blond's determined attempts, Mrs. Barnes took it upon herself to end his quest prematurely, easily picking him up and setting him on the seat. He looked disappointed at the shortcut, his eyebrows coming together, but only for a moment. His manners caught up with him and he twisted around to give her a thank-you. Smiling, she began dishing out the supper, while chatting comfortably with Mrs. Rogers. Not interested in hearing about the church's next charity event, Bucky turned his attention to Steve, who was pondering how he was to reach his plate when his limbs were too short to properly allow him access to the tabletop. After another drink of cold water, inspiration struck Bucky and he promptly dumped the contents of his glass on the head of his playmate. Mouth opening and closing in surprise, Steve merely blinked rapidly, not understanding why it had suddenly rained on him inside the Barnes' home. Identical gasps of shock were emitted from both women. Mrs. Rogers snatched a napkin and rushed to her son's side, dabbing at the streaks of icy water that trailed down her boy's face, sinking into the cloth of his shirt and dripping down to his pants.

"James!" Mrs. Barnes exclaimed in outrage. "Apologize at once," she insisted.

Bucky tilted his head in confusion.

"I am so sorry." Mrs. Barnes completed the task her child did not immediately fulfill.

Mrs. Rogers waved off the hasty apology with a flip of the sopping rag. "It's all right. No harm done."

"I don't know why he did that." Mrs. Barnes twisted her hands, upset by the commotion. "He usually plays so well with Steve." She turned on Bucky suddenly. "James, you need to say you're sorry and you must never do something so mean to Steve again."

Bucky stuck out his lip in a pout. "I wasn't bein' mean. I was helping."

"What?" His mother stared at him, perplexed.

Steve shook the water from his eyes, still bewildered by the abrupt drenching. Bucky pointed a stubby finger in his direction.

"I was helping him," Bucky repeated.

Mrs. Rogers and Mrs. Barnes exchanged a glance over the heads of their children.

"How?" Mrs. Barnes prodded.

"Teacher says water makes things grow and Steve's so little and he needs to grow so I helped him grow," Bucky proudly explained.

Understanding dawned on the parents and they smiled softly to one another.

"Darling, water makes plants grow," Mrs. Barnes kindly clarified.

Disappointment came over Bucky's face. "So Steve ain't gonna get no bigger?"

Upon hearing that, Steve jerked his head up. "I am too. I'ma goin' be real big," he joined in fervently.

Bucky grinned, dreaming up all the things he and Steve could do once they were grown up.


	8. Morning

Cursing under his breath as the relentless German wind swept under his blankets and chilled his toes through his woolen socks, Bucky reluctantly abandoned sleep as the lost cause that is was. As quickly as he could, he tugged his faded shirt over his head, shoved his worn pants over his legs and jammed his feet into his muddy boots. Even with as little time as he had given it, the early morning cold had managed to chill his skin straight to the bone. With a few more choice grunts, he retrieved his coat from the floor, gladly encasing himself in the thick material. As he finished fastening the last button, his eyes fell on the bedroll beside his. It was still rolled up. It hadn't been touched. His foul mood not improved by the sight, Bucky scowled and angrily yanked aside the tent flap.

More wind smacked at his face, eliciting a grimace from him. It was then that he made a promise to himself. Once the war was over, he wasn't going back to New York. He was moving out to Oregon. Or California. Or Hawaii. Somewhere warm where the word 'winter' was not in the vocabulary. Hazy clouds, masquerading as mist, sheltered the horizon, hiding the first rays of the waking sun behind a curtain of shifting moisture. Sniffing in the frigid air, Bucky wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his chin into the collar of his jacket. He hated the cold. And someone just had to be out sitting in it.

Bucky took extra care to ensure that his heavy footfalls made plain his displeasure with the snowflake air, the hardly-able-to-be-called-morning sky, and his friend's irresponsibility in matters of health. He stomped through stale pine needles and frozen dirt to where a figure was outlined by the dawning light. A huff of irritation left Bucky's mouth, dissolving in a swirl of steam. Plopping down next to his comrade, he pulled his legs to his chest, preserving body heat. For a little while, he was content to allow the silence to go undisturbed until his lungs were warm enough to allow talking.

"Do you even try to sleep?" he eventually questioned.

Broad shoulders rose and fell.

Bucky sighed. "Come on, Steve. You gotta get some rest sometime."

Another shrug.

Shaking his head, Bucky fought down his growing frustration. "I don't know what they did to you when they made you all tall and everything but I'm pretty sure you still need sleep, same as everybody else."

"Maybe," Steve conceded.

Rolling his eyes at Rogers' stubbornness, Bucky caught sight of the familiar sketchbook. In neat clean strokes, a battle plan had been outlined, as if it was merely another drawing of the European countryside and not a dangerous and potentially fatal situation filled with bullets, bombs and blood. Shivering (and not just from the temperature,) Bucky switched his gaze back up to Steve. Smooth skin caught the sliver light of the approaching day, blue eyes pieces of a sky unsullied by clouds and Bucky wondered again how Steve had gone from playmate to soldier, companion to leader.


	9. Night

This chapter is dedicated to Kawherp, who pointed out that the last chapter was too short and requested some dialogue after the battle. So here you are, Kawherp. I hope you enjoy this!

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Nearly swaying on his feet, Bucky attempted to focus on his surroundings, but his mind kept slipping away, leaving him stranded in the shattered buildings around him. He discreetly stomped his feet to generate warmth, which he hoped would be enough to bribe his consciousness away from sleep. As he did so, he blew on his bare fingers, breath eerily white in the night. He glanced to his left and squinted in the harsh glare of the spotlights provided by the SSR. In the angry circles of light, metal glinted from gun barrels as soldiers escorted their prisoners through the town.

"How many more?" Bucky inquired impatiently.

Beside him, Steve flipped a few pages in the file he was holding. "Not many."

"Good," Bucky grunted. "I don't know how much longer I can keep my eyes open."

Lifting a hand to direct a pair of men and their charges closer, Steve spared Bucky a quick glance. "Just hang on for a few more minutes."

"Do I have a choice?" Bucky grumbled.

"You could sleep standing up," Steve suggested, the corner of his mouth curving up.

The comment brought its intended smile to Bucky's face. "It's so dark out here, no one would be able to tell," he agreed.

"And since you never do much of the talking anyway, no one will notice anything out of the ordinary," Steve added, making a note on one of the papers.

"That's only because I can't get a word in edgewise since you're such a chatterbox," Bucky teased.

"It's not my fault people enjoy the sound of my voice," Steve innocently defended, running his finger over a certain page before giving directions to the guards in front of him.

"They've obviously never heard you sing," Bucky muttered.

Steve turned to him in mock suspicion. "What did you say?" he queried, already knowing the answer.

"Nothing," Bucky quickly denied.

Deciding to let his friend get away with it just this once, Steve returned his attention to sorting out the captives. After a short while, he finished writing a record of each prisoner, as well as assigning a place for them to be held until the SSR could collect them. When he finally closed the folder, Bucky let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

Steve chuckled. "You ready to catch a few winks, Buck?"

"I've been ready since we first charged into this blasted city," Bucky retorted, already moving toward one of the houses, which had been transformed into a temporary barracks.

"All right, then. Far be it from me to get between a man and his sleep," Steve grinned, holding his hands up in surrender.

Bucky paused. "You are planning on getting some rest yourself, aren't you?" He tried to keep his voice neutral, rather than letting his concern show.

"I sure am," Steve confirmed. "I just need to turn this in." He indicated the file in his possession. "Go on ahead. I'll be there in a minute."

Leaving Steve with a final stern look that promised retribution if the captain went back on his word, Bucky moved forward into the street. He trudged along the frozen pavement, hating every moment spent in the chilled air. A jeep rattled past him and he followed its shape with his eyes until it turned the corner. When it was gone, he took to watching his own boots. The mud-spattered tips led him across broken sidewalks, over rubble, up chipped front stairs and through doors hanging off their hinges.

A delicate pair of off white shoes appeared in his line of sight and he traced the path from the small feet up the petite body to the face they belonged to. He smirked charmingly at the young nurse. She blushed, cheeks lightening to a rosy pink, while a fleeting smile appeared on her lips. Her arms were full of linens and she clutched them tighter as she ducked through the closest doorway and began passing blankets out to the soldiers inside. Bucky paused, leaning casually against the door frame, watching her for a minute or two. When she glanced over her shoulder, he caught her eye and gave her a wink. The blush returned and she hurriedly returned her attention to her task. After another moment, Bucky left.

He wandered around the downstairs of the home, through dining rooms, sitting rooms, studies and kitchens, all of which were being converted to sleeping quarters for the victorious Allied forces. When it became apparent that there was no room on the first floor, Bucky mounted the stairs, sliding his palm over the banister. His footsteps were heavy, leaving mud-soaked thunks in the air behind him. As if sensing how close to rest they were, every muscle in his body began whining about the abuse to which they had been subjected over the course of the day's battle. Bucky didn't blame them.

Descending the stairs, a small group of soldiers gave him respectful nods as they passed, tugging a worn smile onto his cheeks. He climbed the last few steps and stood a moment at the top. A corridor stretched out before him, doors cutting into the wall at regular intervals. He blew out a breath, preparing himself for the arduous search for sleeping space. There were only so many bedrooms in the house and the mattresses had likely already been taken by men who hadn't stood out in the freezing cold for an hour while Captain America oversaw the processing of prisoners. But at this point, Bucky would be happy for a patch of floor to claim as his own. Only twenty-one hours ago, he had been curled up on the frozen earth in the forest, which made floorboards and a rug sound heavenly by comparison. He dragged a hand down his face. Had it only been less than a day since they had packed up camp and invaded this city to free it from Hydra's clutches?

With a tired sigh, Bucky poked his head through the first door on the left. A few heads lifted, though most of the men were already past sleep's threshold. As he had suspected, the bed was full and the floor wasn't visible through the crowd of soldiers laying on it. He backed out of the room and tried not to be jealous. He wasn't feeling very hopeful about the next few rooms but he knew he had to check. As he turned toward them, a young man approached him.

"Sergeant Barnes?"

"Yes," Bucky acknowledged.

"We have a room reserved for the officers," the man informed him, pointing to the far end of the hallway.

Bucky could have whooped for joy while dancing a jig. "Thank you," he said instead.

He hurried down the corridor, intent on finding somewhere quiet to rest. A large doorway beckoned him forward and he passed through it. He found himself in a spacious bedroom. The size and decor spoke of its position as the bedchamber of the owners of the house. Fully expecting to have to share the space with at least five other men, the closest thing to privacy in the army, he was pleasantly surprised to see the room empty. He was even more pleased to see the huge mattress. The distance separating him from it became nonexistent as he rushed forward, throwing himself face first into the soft material. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept on a real bed. Not on a cot, or a sleeping bag or the forest floor but on an honest-to-goodness mattress.

Boots echoed in the hallway, pausing at the door. Bucky knew he must look ridiculous, head buried in the pillows, body sinking into the blankets. But he was too tired to care. At that moment, he wouldn't have cared if the entire Allied army could see him. If it meant he could sleep comfortably on what felt like a fluffy cloud, he would gladly pay the small price of a little embarrassment. He could hear someone enter the room and if he had had energy left, he might have reprimanded them for their impertinence. As it was, he was content to ignore them in favor of paying attention to the squishy surface that was cradling all his tired muscles.

The mattress dipped as someone sat next to him and the invasion of personal space was finally enough to stop Bucky from burrowing completely into the covers. He glanced up sharply but relaxed instantly when he recognized Steve.

"It's like you've never seen a bed before," Steve observed, amused.

Bucky returned to his previous position. "Thish is sho much more cmfrtable than I rimimber," he asserted, words nearly indecipherable through the pillows.

Steve chuckled and patted Bucky's back. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

"I defnly 'm," Bucky drowsily confirmed.

"You might want to take your boots off before you fall asleep," Steve advised.

Bucky groaned, but slowly sat up. "Yeah, I probably should." He picked at the knots in his laces.

Beside him, Steve did the same with his own foot gear. When Bucky finished with his, he tossed the boots across the room. Even as he took off his helmet, Steve raised a disapproving eyebrow. Bucky shrugged, unapologetic. Quickly, he undid the buttons on his coat, draping it over the bedside table and putting his belt on top of it. He nodded once, satisfied.

"Hey, Buck?" Steve hesitantly called.

"Yeah?" Bucky turned to him.

Steve's face was creased with hesitancy, hands slowly removing his gloves and setting them on the bed.

"What is it?" Bucky pressed.

"Can you help me with this?" Steve gestured to his signature uniform.

Instantly, Bucky was off the bed and next to Steve. As he moved the iconic shield from it's place on Steve's back to the mattress, he questioned, "What's wrong?"

Steve's shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. "I don't know. I guess I'm a little stiff."

"Stiff?" Bucky repeated, moving on to undoing the straps to which the shield was customarily attached.

"Apparently my body doesn't like it when I fall off one of Hydra's tanks," Steve ruefully observed.

Bucky's fingers stilled. "You fell from one of those?"

Steve bent slightly, unbuckling the pistol holster from his thigh. "I usually land a little more gracefully."

"You need to be more careful, pal," Bucky advised, shaking his head.

"I'll try," Steve lightly reassured, taking off his belt and adding it to the growing pile of equipment on the bed.

The flap of one of his belt pouches got caught on the edge of the shield, and as Steve dragged the belt forward, the flap lifted, spilling the pouch's contents. His notebook slid out, spine cracking to a random page. As Bucky rounded the captain to face his front, he caught sight of the book. It was opened to the battle plans he and his troops had carried out earlier that day. Thin black lines outlined what had become history. Arrows and circles nudged squares, and Bucky wondered at how simple it looked. Reality had been far messier.

Keeping an eye on the drawing, Bucky only gave half his attention to his task. Stifling a wince as sore muscles protested, Steve lifted his arms to the sides, allowing his friend access to the buckles holding his chest piece in place. Once Bucky undid them, he carefully lifted the chest plate off of Steve. Relieved of the weight, Steve's lungs swelled, taking in a copious amount of oxygen.

"Thanks," he gratefully breathed.

Bucky gave an absent nod, focused instead on the notebook. "Boy, it sure looks easier on paper, doesn't it?"

Mesmerized, he reached out and picked up the book. Disturbed by his touch, the pages shifted to a fresh position. His own face looked up at him in black and white. He barely recognized it. It took him a moment to realize why. There was no dirt smearing the cheeks of the man in the portrait. The skin under the eyes wasn't sunken in and the eyebrows weren't fixed in a perpetual frown. Gone were the wrinkles and the scrapes and the bruises. The paper was smooth, the pencil strokes flawless. This was a picture of the Bucky Barnes who had left Brooklyn for the opportunity to serve his country. Disconcerted by the revelation that there was a disconnect between that confident young man and the weary soldier he had become, Bucky lowered the notepad.

"Everything looks better on paper," he muttered, tossing the book back onto the rest of Steve's belongings.

"It depends on the artist," Steve suggested, gathering his things off the bed and carrying them to the desk on the other side of the room. After depositing his burden, he came back to sit on the edge of the mattress. "Bucky?"

Bucky laid down, stretching himself on his back, enjoying the freedom of personal space and comfortable furniture. "Hmm?" He closed his eyes, knitting his fingers behind his head.

"Do you remember what strawberries taste like?" Steve questioned, facing forward.

"Huh?" Bucky's eyebrows knit.

Steve took a shuddering breath. "I can't remember what strawberries taste like."

Opening his eyes, Bucky frowned, confused. "So?"

"I don't remember what hot dogs taste like either," Steve admitted, eyes skittering to Bucky's face and then away again, as if he were confessing some shameful crime.

"Why are you talking about all this food? Have you had dinner yet?" Bucky inquired.

"That's not the point," Steve protested. "I can't remember what they taste like," he repeated, forcefully.

"All right, Steve. Calm down," Bucky advised gently. "You want to tell me what's really bothering you?"

Steve swallowed and turned his head away.

"Come on," Bucky encouraged, subtly shifting closer, his shoulder just barely bumping Steve's.

"What if..." Steve trailed off, threading his fingers through his blond hair. "What if I forget everything? Everything good, everything from home. And it's just...gone." He looked up then, blue eyes dark with muted fear. "What if I never remember?"

Disturbed by the notion that the war could scrub clean a person's mind, leaving only blood, death and instinct, Bucky felt his mouth go dry.

"It seems like the longer I'm out here, the further away I get from home," Steve murmured.

"That doesn't mean you'll never find your way back," Bucky returned quietly.

Steve glanced back at him, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. Bucky smiled back before he raised an eyebrow.

"Of course, you could always make a new home," he suggested.

Steve cocked his head to the side.

"With Agent Carter," Bucky elaborated, deliberately knocking Steve's shoulder with his own. At Steve's self-conscious expression, Bucky smirked. "I knew it."

"Knew what?" Steve inquired.

"I knew you liked her," Bucky answered simply.

"Yeah, I do," Steve agreed softly, a shy smile brightening his eyes.

Bucky slapped Steve's bicep. "All right, Romeo. Forget your day dreams. It's time to get some real shut eye."

"Right," Steve absently agreed, lying down.

Shaking his head fondly, Bucky climbed off the bed and turned out the lights. He found his way back in the dark, settling onto the mattress for some well-earned sleep. He drifted off to the familiar sound of Steve's even breathing.


	10. Ambition

A short snippet for ErinKenobi2893, who asked for more little Bucky and Steve :)

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With boiled cabbage and mashed carrots sticking to their ribs, Steve and Bucky lay contentedly within their pillow-fort. The thin padding of the couch cushions provided an exclusive hideout for the young boys, free from the parental supervision seated at the dining room table.

"Ow, Steve! Your pointy elbow's in my face."

"Sorry."

The offending joint was quickly re-situated in a less intrusive position.

"So." Bucky flipped over onto his stomach. His legs, crossed at the ankles, kicked slowly through the air. "Whatcha gonna be when you grow up?"

Arms behind his head, Steve stared up at their cloth ceiling. "I dunno," he shrugged.

"Well, I know what I'm goin' do," Bucky asserted.

"Really?" Steve inquired, intrigued.

"Sure." Bucky nodded. "I'ma be a real ball player, just like Babe Ruth," he asserted, adolescent voice filled with certainty.

"You'd make a swell player," Steve agreed.

"Yeah, I already knowed I'd be good 'cause I can already hit the ball far and I can catch a whole ton better'n ol' Tom Kaye," Bucky explained self-confidently.

"Gee, Buck." Steve peered through the dimness of their little hideaway. "You really beat Tom?"

"'Course I beat 'im." Bucky reached out and ruffled Steve's hair.

Steve scrunched his face and shifted out of Bucky's grasp.

"Wha'd about you?" Bucky pressed, lifting himself up on his forearms to peer down at Steve.

Scratching absently at his nose, Steve considered his answer. "Not sure," he finally answered.

"That's no good!" Bucky protested. "Ya gotta pick somethin'!"

"But what do I pick?" Steve questioned.

"Somethin'. Anythin'," Bucky stated.

"Hold on, I gotta think." Steve tapped his hand against his stomach as he concentrated on coming up with a suitable answer.

"I bet you could be the pres'dint if ya wanted," Bucky commented.

Steve's eyes sparkled. "You really think so?"

"I'd vote for you." Bucky shrugged.

"My middle name is Grant and he was a president," Steve mused.

"Uh-huh," Bucky concurred.

"'Course your middle name's Buchanan and he was a president too," Steve pointed out.

"Aw, I don't wanna be pres'dint," Bucky scoffed. "They're all old and borin'."

"You sayin' I'm boring?" Steve teased.

"Maybe," Bucky returned with a toothy grin.

"I'll show you boring!" Steve launched himself at his friend, fingers scrabbling into all his ticklish spots.


	11. Need

Well, I meant to post this a week ago. Obviously that didn't work out :P

Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to ChildofGod, who requested it! I hope it's everything you wanted! :D

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The last time Bucky saw Steve, the little punk was standing in the yellow lobby of the recruiters office, trying so damn hard to follow his best friend across the ocean. They argued, they embraced and that was the last he saw of him. When he came back from his dance, Steve was nowhere to be found so Bucky went home to an empty apartment and dreamed of fireworks in a black sky.

The next time Bucky saw Steve, he wasn't sure it wasn't another dream. Somehow, between the needles, the straps and _32557038_ , Bucky lost track of reality. It slipped away from him as easily as the sweat rolling down his temple to drip into the collar of his tattered uniform. So when the face of his best friend suddenly loomed over him in the darkness, he merely smiled because this illusion was more pleasant than the other visions he'd been having. He knew it couldn't be real because he'd been praying for a rescue until the words 'God, let me live' had lost their meaning. And the thing before him wasn't a very convincing image either. It was Steve's face but it wasn't. There was something wrong with it. Bucky's mind was little more than canned tomato preserves so he couldn't come up with an explanation for how only a second's glance could tell him there was something off but he knew there was a problem.

But despite what his brain thought it knew, his body was beyond its reach. Limbs moved of their own accord, going through motions they'd done a thousand times for the past two decades. If there was pain, reach for Steve. Steve equaled pain because Steve was too dumb to keep his nose out of trouble. Stupid kid always thought he had to stand up for what was right, meaning what was wrong always knocked him down. So Bucky reached for Steve but when his arm should have gone down to reach thin shoulders, it went up to catch on bulky ones and the change in position made him lose his balance almost as much as being lifted off that damn slab of metal did.

He looked down because down meant blue eyes, a bloody nose and a quite smile. Instead, he got a face full of leather. A single sliver star gleamed dully in the shadows and Bucky blinked at it. The last time he'd seen a star was from the deck of a ship riding the waves of the Atlantic ocean, carrying him away from his home toward a land of snow and Nazis. The speck of silver light scarcely pierced the blackness as the sky slipped away overhead. After that night, there were only clouds that dropped snowflakes and bombs.

The man with Steve's face but not his body grabbed Bucky and dragged him away, hauling him down the long corridors of the prison where Bucky had spent an indeterminable amount of time bound to a table. From there it was faltering steps along gloomy brick and desperate snatching at thin metal rails and glimpses of impossibly high ceilings before deafening explosions that rocked the world. The earth trembled and the foundations of the factory groaned, metal shrieking and collapsing, the very air splitting in half with the thunder. His skull was rattled with the concussions and something vile clung to the blood in his veins, threatening the tenuous control he had over his weakened limbs. Nothing made sense to him but one thing. Help Steve.

Except that Steve was nowhere to be seen. A solid figure in a bomber jacket charged ahead of him through the confusion. Leading, guiding. Confidence and focal point and compass. Bucky pressed fingers to his temple and struggled to connect the jagged edges of the puzzle pieces of his mind. Steve was safe, back in New York. Back home. Yet someone who urged him, in Steve's voice, to continue running was here. With him.

Racing heart and panting breath left little room for conscious thought so Bucky simply surrendered to instinct. Steve, whether real or imagined, was still Steve. That was a good enough reason to charge through fire, crawl under debris and march through a frozen forest. Night turned to day, panic to dull contentment as Bucky wrestled with the evidence before his eyes and on his arms whenever he stumbled and strong hands steadied his body, anchoring on shoulder blade and chest.

Eventually, Bucky came to the realization that it was indeed Steve Rogers who had rescued him. It only took a thirty mile march through enemy territory to stimulate his mistreated brain back into normal reasoning processes. Thirty miles and many intense whispered interrogations involving secrets only he and his childhood friend could possibly know before Bucky believed in miracles. Skinny, sick Steve was now smart, strong Steve. And boy, if it didn't make Bucky damn proud when an entire camp of United States soldiers cheered for Steve like he was the hero Bucky had always known lay beneath the asthmatic.

Food, rest and warmth worked wonders and soon Bucky was deemed healthy enough to return to duty. Or at least, he proved stubborn enough to refuse to let anyone stop him from doing so. It was a relief to reunite with his men after weeks of separation. It was a surprise to find them already reorganized and confident in a way they had only been while under his command. His need for recuperation had left a gaping hole that needed to be filled and Steve's new bulk fit that hole like a key into a lock.

Having earned their respect by saving their lives, Steve had effortlessly slipped into the leadership role the 107th so desperately needed after their dramatic escape and all the trauma that had preceded it. Relief for the stability his men were receiving and unease at the thought of anyone besides him providing it warred inside Bucky's mind, stirring his stomach into a constant state of nausea.

Conflict regarding Steve's position as Captain America seemed to become Bucky's new state of mind. He was caught in a tug-of-war between disbelief and acceptance, bitterness and pride, resentment and joy. It was natural for him to be happy for Steve, happy Rogers was no longer confined by the limits of a frail body, happy his best friend was beside him, healthy and whole. It was instinctual for him to be angry at Steve, angry that Rogers garnered more attention than he did, angry that his best friend had usurped his position and was now a successful commander not only of what used to be Bucky's regiment but of Bucky himself. The turmoil in his head matched the contrast between his numb fingers and the hot blood in his veins when he stared through his sniper's scope.

Deep down, in the places Bucky didn't dare venture, in the shadows of his heart that his subconscious locked him out of to protect him, where scarcely remembered pain lurked in carved crevices, the root of his displeasure lay. The true reason for his ire was fear. A fear of loss, loss of his identity. His whole life had been centered around Steve Rogers, protecting and assisting him. Who he was had been shaped around filling the roles of champion, provider, comforter, care-taker, friend and anyone else Steve had needed. Bucky was alive to make Steve's life easier. But now, Steve was self-sufficient. He was bigger, smarter and stronger than Bucky now. Steve no longer needed Bucky to chase off bullies, work an extra shift so there would be money for a new jacket to replace Steve's torn one, promise that tomorrow would be better, administer medicine, pay for a pair of tickets to Ebbets Field for a Phillies and Dodgers game or set him up with a date. Steve had become his own hero. So what was Bucky's role? Where did he fit into Steve's life now?

A pattern was established for him and, without an anchor and lost, Bucky fell into it. Colonel Phillips called Steve into war councils, behind closed doors where Bucky used to be invited. Bucky would remain in the hall, seated on a chair with his arms crossed, waiting for decisions to be made without him. News reporters, journalists and cameramen flocked to Steve, smothering him in questions and compliments and demands for pictures and signatures. Bucky stood to the side, quietly observing the crush of the adoring mob. Senators and other political figures awarded Steve medals, honors and accolades. Meanwhile, Bucky discovered he had an affinity for sniping. It was a silent position, far away from the glamour of leading the charge. He was still looking for his place and it appeared as though he belonged in the tucked away corners, the hidden places no one looked, in the shadows and darkness and silence.

Whether Steve needed him to or not, Bucky still watched Steve's back. He watched his back because a surface tension of resentment could not erase twenty years of habit. From his position on snow covered ridges, or the eaves of a church, Bucky defended Steve from threats. As unwelcome or unnecessary though the actions might have been, Bucky couldn't help himself. His imprisonment in Krausberg had broken something inside of him and he was desperate to reclaim what little bit of James Barnes he still could. Looking out for Steve was a fundamental building block of who he was and he couldn't let it go.

The war went on, the fight continued. Captain America led the Allied forces to victory as they pushed their way deeper into the heart of Germany. Although Hydra was on the defensive, in full retreat, it didn't stop them from continuing their heinous acts of violence. They bombed, razed and destroyed every city, town and village they came across in their mad dash back to their capital.

On one occasion, an intercepted radio message warned the Allies of an impending attack on an innocent town. Despite the distance between the town and where the Allied base had been set up, Steve and his men were dispatched to rescue the inhabitants before Hydra arrived. A harried midnight journey took place, the jostling convoy of trucks leaving no opportunity for rest among the troops as they raced against time. Bucky crossed his arms and leaned his head back against the swaying structure of the canvas-covered transport, eyes on Steve and mind on the fight ahead.

Dawn was just breaking across the horizon, pale sun struggling to gain supremacy in the sky as heavy clouds appeared, when the Allied convoy rolled down the main street, engines growling and tires groaning. Sleepy townsfolk poked their heads out their windows as soldiers flooded the town, banging on doors and shouting to rouse the slumbering. Like a flock of sheep, the townspeople were rounded up and, through arduous conversations by translators, made aware of the need for evacuation. With quick efficiency, under Steve's direction, the process began to load the people into the trucks.

Lingering sleep made the population compliant. The operation was progressing smoothly and soon all would be ready for departure. Until dark smears on the landscape caused murmurs of alarm to rise from the crowd. The indistinct shapes sharpened into figures. Monstrous tanks and row upon row of foot soldiers became visible marching steadily for the city, causing a panic to blossom among the natives. Hydra's appearance evoked widespread chaos. Bucky assisted Steve in his effort to maintain control of the fearful crowd.

Just as the first of Hydras tanks began rolling down the ridge toward the town, Steve gave the order and the Allied trucks, now weighed down with civilians, began their flight back to safe territory. Clouds overran the sky, blocking the sunshine and dipping the temperature. Despite the assurances of the soldiers helping them, the townsfolk would not be comforted and continued to weep and wail. The noise of the crowd was near deafening, added to the thunder of truck engines, the creaking of the bench seats and barking of domestic dogs being left behind.

Bucky rode next to Steve, scanning the panicked crowd as Steve assured them in halting Deutsche that everything would be okay. It didn't escape his notice that Steve was simultaneously speaking to them while monitoring Hydra's inevitable approach. The wind picked up as the clouds opened. Snow dumped down on the road, blanketing the world in hazy white.

Steve abruptly straightened and cocked his head, as if listening to something. Bucky waited. When Steve leaped out of the back of the truck, Bucky wasn't as surprised as he thought he should have been. Then Bucky rose and jumped out of the lumbering vehicle and spotted Steve weaving though the parade of trucks, stopping occasionally with the same intent expression on his face. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for as he sprinted to a truck and hopped up onto the bumper. Bucky followed. Inside was a woman, tugging on the sleeve of the nearest soldier and sobbing the same phrase over and over, 'stopp, bitte! Meine tochter, meine tochter!' Steve laid a hand on her arm, pulling her attention to him. It amazed Bucky that through the cacophony of sound, Steve had been able to discern that single plea.

Bucky did not understand what she was saying, nor Steve's responses to her. They exchanged a few hurried sentences, the woman's voice pleading, yet urgent. Steve took a moment to explain to Bucky that the woman was begging for the caravan to stop and return for her daughter. Then, in the blink of an eye, Steve was launching himself off the truck. Bucky followed, racing through the thickly falling snow toward the town. Steve went back for the little girl. And Bucky went back for Steve.

With enhanced physical abilities, Steve easily outpaced Bucky, reaching the town first and bolting down the narrow streets. As Bucky drew closer, a primal flash of rebellion reared in his chest as he caught sight of the Hydra company nearing the town's edges. He quashed his sense of self-preservation and increased his pace. He was pummeling across flagstone roads when he heard crying in a nearby house. As he made his way to it, a blur of motion crossed his line of vision. It was Steve, already kicking in the door of the house. Bucky came in behind him, squinting in the gloom of the unlit dwelling. The source of the noise appeared to be a low bed frame. Steve knelt and carefully pulled out the small child that had been cowering beneath the piece of furniture.

No sooner had Steve gathered the girl in his arms than the entire house shook from the force of an explosion. Hydra was firing on the town. With a gloved palm, Steve turned the girl's head into his shoulder, pressing her face against him. He rose and gestured to the door. Bucky nodded and exited, waiting just outside the threshold. Steve emerged, holding the quivering girl securely. A second explosion burst in the air, making the earth tremble. Bucky blinked the snow from his lashes and turned to the right, the direction the Allies were traveling. Ahead of him, he could hear Steve gently hushing the child's tears.

Together, they moved only a handful of paces before the structure in front of them, an old stone bell tower, shattered into pieces, ripped apart by one of Hydras missiles. Chunks of debris plummeted to the ground. Steve pivoted, sheltering the girl beneath him as he exposed his back to the destruction. Bucky ducked, even as Steve gave an audible grunt of pain. Raising his head, Bucky gazed with dismay at the large rocks filling the road, blocking their path back to the trucks.

A gust of frigid wind rushed through the town, whipping the snow into a frenzy. Squinting his eyes, Bucky stepped forward to examine the rubble, searching for a path through it. He turned, expecting to find Steve beside him. Empty air met him, causing his breath to catch in his throat. Glancing to the last place he had seen the captain, Bucky jolted forward. Steve was on the ground, the giant brass bell pinning him to the street.

For a moment, Bucky was certain his friend was dead. The thought made his heart stutter and he could hardly move to investigate. However, as he drew closer, it became apparent that the bell had not crushed Steve. Other bits of the tower, scattered around Steve, held the brunt of the massive structure's weight. Relief swept over Bucky, easing the tight bands from his lungs. Steve coughed and Bucky launched into action. He knelt next to the captain, reaching out a hand. Carefully, slowly, mindful of the enormous weight positioned above him, Steve shifted the child in his arms, pushing her toward Bucky. Bucky frowned. The girl began sobbing and Steve urged her toward Bucky. Bucky shook his head.

The stomp of boots over frozen ground yanked both soldier's gazes up the street. The snow made it difficult to see, but the noise of the approaching army was unmistakable. Steve shoved the girl into Bucky's arms. The child instantly clung to him. With a jerk of his head, Steve indicated Bucky should go. Go and just leave his friend trapped and helpless with a contingent of Hydra troops coming straight for him. Bucky shook his head. Steve's eyes narrowed, stubbornness settling into his facial muscles. The expression was so achingly familiar, Bucky was transported back in time, across the ocean and into a back alley in Brooklyn.

Shouts carried on the wind, orders being given to the enemy men. Bucky craned his neck to attempt to see through the swirling snow. Unable to catch even a glimpse of the approaching threat, Bucky returned his attention to Steve. Letting the girl clutch his shoulders to hold herself up, he grabbed Steve's nearest arm and tugged. Steve's body didn't budge, held in place by the massive bell. Steve ripped his arm away and glared at Bucky in anger tinged with worry. Unwilling to risk giving away their position by attempting conversation, Steve simply motioned again that Bucky should take the girl and catch up with the retreating Allies.

Bucky refused. A desperate shine glimmered in Steve's blue eyes and he pointed to the shivering, weeping child hanging on Bucky's chest. Confident there was still time to save both the girl and Steve, Bucky leaned over to try again to free the trapped captain. Steve flinched away from his touch and gestured to the other end of the street once more. Nearby, a section of houses got blown away by Hydra's tank. The girl shrieked in terror. Bucky clapped a hand over her mouth but it was too late. Her scream had drawn the attention of a nearby patrol.

A pair of Hydra soldiers appeared further up the road. Steve's eyes widened. Bucky grunted, removing the girl from his body. He drew his pistol and shot at the advancing threat. One of the men dropped, dead. The other returned fire. A blaze of blue fire slipped with lethal grace toward Bucky. He dropped to one knee, the bolt passing over his head into the building he crouched near. The wall disappeared in a flash of smoke, eliciting another scream from the girl. Setting his jaw, Bucky rested his fist on his raised knee, steadying his arm as he took aim. His bullet sailed harmlessly past the enemy, as the man swerved out of its path. Another blue bolt streaked in his direction. Bucky folded his torso over his knee and shoved off the ground with his other foot, rolling into a clumsy tumble to avoid the danger.

When he regained his feet, he swung his gun up, searching out his target. The street appeared empty. Cautiously, Bucky inched forward, boots sliding through freshly fallen snow. The air was thick with snow, muting sound and reducing visibility. Bucky crept forward slowly, straining for any sign of his missing adversary. A shape suddenly emerged from between two houses, the barrel of a gun a black menace amidst the winter weather. Reflexes had Bucky recoiling from it, ducking into the nearest door frame. He waited a moment, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. When a blue haze evaporated the window beside him, he leaped out of his shelter and squeezed off three rounds from his pistol. The German gave a stunted cry and dropped to the street.

Breathing heavily, Bucky returned to find the child sitting by Steve's head, her small hand resting on his shoulder. As Bucky approached, Steve lifted his eyes. They bore the same message as they had before. And Bucky knew Steve would not forgive him if he hesitated any longer. Silently promising that he would be back for his friend, Bucky scooped the girl up in his arms and turned away, ignoring her soft protests and the feeling that he was betraying Rogers.

He traveled up the street, aware of the swarms of Hydra soldiers infesting the city. At the end of the block, he peeked around the corner and cursed inwardly at the sight of five men in black uniforms marching toward his position. Pulling back into the shadows, he scanned his surroundings for a viable way out. His gaze rested on the soldier he had just shot. He glanced beyond the body to the narrow path that snaked between the two buildings the corpse lay in front of.

Pausing only to hush the crying girl, Bucky sprinted to the opening. It was hardly wide enough for him to fit through. But if he twisted his shoulders and angled his body, he could make it. Even as he did so, his shoulder blades scraped uncomfortably against the structures. It was a short passage and he soon emerged on a deserted side street. The rumble of an engine sent a jolt through his bones. He sneaked up to the corner where the street joined the main road just in time to watch a uniformed man dismount a motorcycle, leaving it idling as he hurried toward a knot of Hydra officers, who were overseeing their troops' search of the town.

Recognizing the opportunity, Bucky sprinted across the open street and swung himself and the girl onto the bike. As soon as the girl was settled in front of him on the seat, his left arm across her thin middle to hold her in place, he launched the motorbike forward, jerking the handlebars sharply to change direction. Shouts of surprise preceded the hail of bullets that rained around him. Bucky swerved and pushed the bike faster down the road. Snowflakes dived at his eyes, smacking off his cheeks. He grimaced and squinted against their onslaught.

Yells echoed around him, the word spreading of his escape. Blue energy filled the air, along with rounds of metal, as Hydra attempted to kill him. They weren't going to succeed. Bucky wouldn't let them. If he died, Steve died and that was not acceptable. Steve was America's New Hope, the symbol of courage and virtue and nationalism, the face of the war effort, the one who was going to crush Hydra beneath his boots and bring peace to the world. Steve was also Bucky's old friend, his symbol of courage and honor and perseverance, the single beacon of light in the darkest depths of war, the one who was going to crush the hell out of Hydra beneath his boots and bring peace to the whole damn world because that's just who he was and no one knew that better than Bucky Barnes. Bucky was going to live so Steve could live and have a life after the war was over. Steve would settle down, marry Peggy Carter and have a hell of a lot of kids who would call Bucky 'uncle' because he and Steve were brothers, blood relations be damned.

Clutching the girl tighter, Bucky gunned the engine, urging more speed from the engine. The bike lurched forward, tires churning the powdery snow into slush. He whipped around a corner sharply, tilting his body against the pull of gravity to maintain his seat. They were nearing the edge of the town. Through the snow, he could just make out the vague shape of the Allied caravan. All that separated him from them was a bridge set over a gushing river. Deftly, Bucky guided the motorcycle over to it. The wheels bumped along the uneven surface and the girl whimpered. No sooner had they reached the other side than the bridge exploded behind them, having been fired on by one of Hydra's tanks.

Ducking low against the spray of debris and displaced water as large chunks of the bridge dropped into the water, Bucky willed the bike to go faster. Wind yanked at his hair and tugged on his jacket, while tossing fat snowflakes at him. Feeling adrenaline pumping in his blood, Bucky drew in deep lungfuls of frigid breath, relieved to find himself gaining on the large trucks. A few more minutes passed before he was close enough to draw up behind the vehicle in the back. He shouted over the noise of the traffic, alerting those within to his arrival. Faces, filled with fear and curiosity, popped out from behind the canvas. Hugging the body of the bike tighter between his legs, Bucky lifted the young girl with his left arm, using his right to alternate between steadying the bike and the child. Many willing, astonished pairs of hands reached out to grab the girl. Hardly waiting to make sure they had her, Bucky spun the bike around, sending snow, dead leaves and gravel flying out from beneath the wheels.

His grip curled over the handles, fingers fisting, knuckles bleached as white as the thickening snow. The ground was swallowed beneath the speeding motorbike. He soon found himself approaching the swollen river and the gap where the bridge used to be. Piles of rock littered the path, forcing him to swerve madly to avoid them. The wind changed direction, scattering the snowflakes out of his path and allowing him a clear view of the impossible divide between himself and the town. He still had time to stop the bike, slow it down before it reached the end of the road. He still had time to halt his suicide mission. He would rather chop off his own arm than abandon Steve.

Rapidly evaluating the scene around him, he spied a slanted chunk of bridge lying on his side of the bank. Without taking the time to dwell on what would happen if he failed, of the ice water that would fill his lungs, drowning him while freezing him from the inside out, he angled the front of the motorbike toward it. Using it like a ramp, he sailed over the tumbling water, avoiding a slow and painful death. He landed on the other side with a bone-jolting thud, his tongue sliced when it caught between his clattering jaw. Blood seeped into his mouth and he refused himself the luxury of gagging.

Mind set on the single goal that had always occupied it, Bucky stayed true to his course, accelerating toward the town. Toward Steve. His return caught Hydra by surprise and they were not prepared to stop him. The only thing they could do was leap out of the way of his charging vehicle. Expertly guiding the bike through the streets, Bucky wound across the town, confusing any onlookers and losing any tail, hoping to keep Steve's location a secret for as long as possible. Only once he was certain no one was following him did he return to the sight of the bell tower explosion.

His heart skipped a beat as he gazed at the scene, feeling hopelessness burrow into his veins. He carefully picked his way through the destruction, avoiding jagged stones and piles of dust. Dismounting the bike, he hurried to the enormous bell and the man pinned beneath it. When he crouched by Steve, the blond head jerked up and the blue eyes flooded with surprise. Bucky grinned at him, teeth stained red with the blood seeping out of his tongue.

Holding his finger to his lips in a gesture for silence, Bucky leaned forward, peering through the dropping snow and lengthening shadows to ascertain the exact position of the bell in relation to Steve. The great curve of the bell was resting on Steve's spine, covering his back from the shoulder blades down. Bucky moved around to the other end of the structure where, beneath two stones acting as pillars, he could just barely see the tips of Steve's boots. He walked back around and stretched out his hand. Steve stared at it a moment. Then he grabbed it.

Bucky braced himself as Steve tugged on his arm, attempting to use it as an anchor to pull himself up on. Gritting his teeth, Bucky slid his grip down, fingers curling around Steve's forearm, feeling the drumming of the captain's pulse striking against the skin at the base of his pointer finger. Steve's body scraped forward an inconsequential amount of space. The movement bolstered Bucky's determination and he settled more firmly into his stance.

A flash of blue streaked over Bucky's head. He jerked away reflexively, wrenching Steve's arm. Steve gave a grunt of pain before letting go, waiting for Bucky to release his arm. Reluctant to do so, yet having no choice, Bucky removed his hand, already moving to draw his pistol. He ducked behind a large chunk of rock, glancing around it to see his target. A lone Hydra soldier stood in the center of the street, blaster pointed unerringly in his direction. Bucky squeezed off a shot. The enemy returned fire. Bucky dodged, swinging around his shelter to gain a new angle. His bullet grazed the other man, causing him to stagger in pain. Without giving the Hydra gunman time to recover, Bucky rose and sprinted closer to ensure he wouldn't miss. Near enough to see the blood darkening the black uniform of the enemy soldier, Bucky pulled the trigger. And felt a sickening moment of horror when his gun merely clicked.

The German regained his balance and swung his weapon up to point at Bucky. Bucky retreated, diving under a section of fallen tower. His fingers shook as they struggled to reload his pistol. The stones he hid beneath suddenly disappeared, having been hit by the enemy. The air shifted, as if thrown forward. Bucky was pushed over by the airwave, ammunition flying out of his grip. Scrambling on his hands and knees, he frantically searched the area for his bullets. Hydra's soldier advanced. Unable to find his clip, Bucky leaped to his feet and charged the approaching enemy. He slammed into the man, sending them both crashing to the road. From his position atop the Hydra soldier, Bucky shoved aside the man's weapon. It skittered into the side of a nearby building. The disarmed man wriggled and squirmed. Bucky leaned forward, using his weight to keep himself astride the bucking body under him. The soldier aimed a fist at Bucky's temple. Bucky jerked his head up and the blow connected with his mouth, splitting his lip and refreshing the taste of blood.

He deflected a second punch with his left arm. In the same instant, his right brought his pistol slamming down toward the soldier's head. The first hit snapped the man's head to the side. The next broke his nose. Bucky swung once again, rendering the enemy unconscious. Climbing to his feet, Bucky gave the sleeping form one last parting kick before turning his attention to Steve.

Despite his desperate struggles to free himself so he could help his friend, Steve had made no further progress. Bucky surveyed his predicament with a thoughtful frown. Wordlessly, he scooped up the discarded Hydra weapon. With focused calm, he directed the blast into the bell. It disintegrated, leaving Steve gratefully gasping lungfuls of air. Bucky quickly snatched his arm, hauling him upright. Steve's chest rose and fell in a tide under Bucky's steadying palm. The motion was eerily similar to the effects of an asthma attack.

Shaking off memories of late night medication and _just breathe, Steve,_ Bucky draped Rogers' arm over his shoulder and practically dragged the captain toward the motorcycle. Unexpectedly, blue lightning erupted around them. Bucky snapped his head up to find a small company of Hydra soldiers sweeping into the street. Cursing, he mounted the bike, yanking Steve up after him. As soon as he felt Steve's arms circle around his middle, he gunned the engine and the motorbike surged forward. With debris blocking the road behind him and the alleys being two narrow for the bike, Bucky had no other direction to go but straight ahead.

Steve shifted behind him and Bucky felt a fresh spike of protectiveness flare in his stomach, determination igniting and spreading to his limbs. He raised the stolen gun and returned their volley with one of his own, the motorcycle wobbling as he struggled to hold onto both it and his weapon. The knot of hostile soldiers scattered. In preparation for the sharp corner he needed to navigate next, Bucky tossed aside the blaster and grabbed the handlebars with both hands. He steered out of the side street, aiming for the main road.

One of Steve's arm left his waist, causing Bucky to momentarily panic, sure the captain was too injured to hold himself up. But the loud retort of Steve's handgun soon reassured him, the sight of their enemies dropping as they passed them doing the same. Snow blew in his face, obscuring the path and Bucky relied on his instincts to navigate his way back to the rest of the Allies. His memory served him well, his brain reminding him of the streets he had traveled.

As they weaved their way toward the edge of town, the opposition thinned, most of Hydra's company concentrated in the center of the city. The bike tires glided smoothly over the road, in spite of the amount of snow blanketing it, as they raced toward safety. When they approached the destroyed bridge, Bucky felt Steve's grip tighten around his stomach, a small gesture of apprehension. Yet the captain remained quiet, offering no protest. That display of trust was a needle and thread, stitching together the broken pieces of James Barnes.

Expertly, Bucky launched the motorcycle off the rubble. As they left the ground, Steve's right arm immediately swung around Bucky's middle, the pistol still clutched in his hand pressing into his friend's abdomen. For a surreal moment, they flew through the air, hearing the gurgling of the churning water beneath them. Then they slammed down on the other bank and Bucky opened the throttle on the bike, sending them speeding off after the convoy there was no trace of. Steve sagged against him and Bucky shifted until the soldier was comfortably supported.

The ground sloped up before them, the hill blocking any sign of the Allied trucks. Bucky pushed forward through the twirling snowflakes. They crested the rise, finally escaping the snow-clogged valley the town was nestled inside of. As the ground leveled off, the ferocity of the elements impact was lessened and Bucky was grateful for the respite. The sun was brighter on this side of the snowstorm, the world seemingly glowing in a gentle gold.

On the horizon, a line of crawling insects indicated the position of the convoy. Bucky felt the knot of tension uncurl from his intestines. Checking once more that Steve was in no danger of falling off, Bucky urged the motorbike forward, the machine easily consuming the distance between itself and the army vehicles. Tire tracks and crushed vegetation marked the passage of the caravan along the same path Bucky was now hurtling.

In a short amount of time, the sleeker, faster bike overtook the weighed down cargo trucks. Bucky gave a shout, calling for attention. Steve jerked at the unexpected voice. Risking a hand off the handlebars, Bucky gripped Steve's wrist tightly for a second before releasing it. After receiving no response from the vehicle before them, Bucky zoomed ahead to the front of the line. He pulled up parallel to the lead car before attempting to yell again. Dugan's face appeared in the window of the truck's cab. His expression shifted into both happiness at seeing his commanders and confusion as to their mode of transportation. Brushing aside the man's befuddlement, knowing that an explanation would not be possible in their current positions, Bucky instead used hand gestures to communicate their need to stop at the next available checkpoint. Dugan nodded his understanding.

Gradually, Bucky brought the cycle's speed down to the same level as the trucks. He drifted just down and to the left of the lead one, content to let Dugan head up the convoy. Lack of sleep, an ebbing sense of urgency and the warm weight of Steve against his back combined forces, smothering Bucky's brain in a swatch of fatigue. The rumble of the engine beneath him was a humming lullaby and he felt himself losing the battle against sleep.

But Steve needed him. That simple truth sent an electric current sizzling through his neural pathways. It snapped him to attention, banishing all thoughts of rest from his mind. Bucky yanked himself away from exhaustion and focused on keeping the motorcycle as steady as possible. The ground slipped past, landscape blurring to the side as the Allies made their way back.

Eventually, Steve sagged forward completely. Bucky twisted around to glance at his friend's face. The snow and wind had flushed Steve's cheeks a raw pink, his hair was scattered across his forehead, brushing lightly against a thin cut at his temple, and his lips were slightly parted under his closed eyelids. Rogers was sleeping. In spite of the fact that he was on the back of a stolen enemy bike, surrounded by trucks packed full of refugees, with snowflakes still dropping gently, Steve was sleeping. Steve was sleeping, even after nearly being crushed to death by a bell tower. Steve was sleeping, slumped against Bucky. A soft smile curled Bucky's mouth and he faced front again, slipping his hand around Steve's arm to anchor it in place.


	12. Santa

I couldn't resist doing a short little holiday chapter! Steve is about six years old.

P.S. for those reviewers who have requested a hurt!Bucky fic, it's in the making so keep an eye out ;)

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 _Dear Santa claus, dec 18, 1924_

 _I know your awful busy this time of year but I wanted to write this letter to you about my friend Bucky. Please bring him some toys. He been good all year til he hit Wilfred morey. He didn't mean it. Willie made him mad and Bucky's got a temper so he hit him but please santa, don't be angry he was a little naughty but can you bring him something anyway? If you want to, you can give my toys to him. Also can you make my mommy happy? She looks so sad. I hope you come and bring lots of stuff for mommy and Buck._

 _Your friend, Steven rogers_


	13. Dread

Hello, wonderful readers! I can't believe how long it's been since I was on this site! Gosh, I've missed it :) I could go on for pages about the reasons for my unintended hiatus but no one wants to read that so I'll sum it up in less than five words-broken laptop, family, work.

So I need to apologize to everyone who sent me requests-ErinKenobi2893, poetrygirl22, Niom Lamboise, amy. .9, Ecri and all of the guest reviewers. I still have the requests (thank goodness) but unfortunately, I have to start over on all of them since I lost all my work :,( I am very sorry but the wait will be even longer now. (Please don't hate me, I'm still reeling from the loss of my precious word documents)

However, with the approach of Civil War, I couldn't keep silent anymore and I managed to get this little one shot up. (I am so psyched for CA: CW!)

* * *

"How is she?" Steve questioned breathlessly, before he'd even shut the back door behind him.

A swirl of dust, carried in the wake of his hasty entrance, flashed through the air, settling in his hair and highlighting the dark circles beneath his eyes. Clutching the glass bottle of medication in one thin fist, Steve struggled out of his cumbersome jacket, carelessly letting it fall to the floor.

Bucky blew out a breath and rubbed his chin with his hand. "She, ah, she's sleeping now."

All motion in the cramped kitchen ceased as Steve froze. "Just sleeping? Not...?" he inquired, tension and fear seeping into his tone where his unspoken words hung heavy.

"Yeah, I checked," Bucky reassured him.

With a glance that revealed his trepidation, Steve hurried to the sink, snatching a cup from the cupboard on the way. The rush of water tumbling from the faucet stuffed up the room with noise. Bucky leaned tiredly against the door frame, watching Steve's nimble fingers uncap the medicine and measure out the correct amount with one hand, while filling the glass with the other.

"Did she say anything before she drifted off?" Steve's voice was calm.

Bucky knew better. Steve was scared. It was there in the forward arch of his shoulders, the trembling in his arms, the curve of his spine.

"Um…" Bucky swallowed.

After grabbing a dishcloth and wetting it with a few sparse drops of cool water, Steve brushed past Bucky, out into the passage that connected the kitchen with the rest of the house. A door separated him from the front room and the staircase to the second floor. He juggled the items in his hands while attempting to open it.

"Well?" he pressed, teeth grit in concentration.

Bucky shook himself and reached around Steve's slim body to twist the knob. Pushing through, Steve mounted the creaky steps with his shabby shoes. He stopped at the top, feet on the fraying rug, shuttered eyes locked on his friend, who propped himself tiredly against the banister at the bottom of the stairwell.

"Coming?" Steve tersely queried.

Reluctantly, Bucky pulled himself up the many stairs, rubbing at the back of his neck. Steve made as if to open the bedroom door when Bucky's words stopped him.

"She did say something."

"What was it?" Steve questioned, not turning to face him.

"Uh…she, ah…she wanted to know if, um, if I-I thought you would…um…" A lump in his throat made speaking difficult for Bucky.

"Just spit it out," Steve advised wearily.

"She asked me if I thought you would…have a great future, or something," Bucky rushed through his message, giving a helpless shrug at the end of it.

"What?" Steve set down his burdens, placing them on the wooden floor planks, his face creased in confusion. "What does that mean?"

"I dunno," Bucky shrugged again, feeling useless and uncomfortable. "She said something about 'doing big things'."

"What'd you say?" Steve inquired cautiously.

"I told her yes," Bucky confessed.

"What?!" Steve exclaimed. "Why would you do that? Why would you say that?"

"What did you want me to tell her?" Bucky defensively protested.

"How about the truth?" Steve stepped abruptly toward Bucky, causing him to back up a few inches.

"You don't know-" Bucky started, attempting to placate his friend.

"Don't know what?" Steve argued heatedly. "Look, Buck, we both know that I have no future." Sticking up a bony hand, he halted Bucky's immediate protest. "I'm too small and sick to do anything more than I already am and we're barely scraping by as it is. You had no right to tell her any different." He glared angrily.

"No right?" Bucky regained his lost ground, drawing himself up to tower over Steve, throwing out an arm to gesture at the closed bedroom door. "I've been sitting in that tiny little room for hours, watching her cough up her lungs right in front of me, while you run around town getting medicine that won't do her any good. It's too late for-"

"I know that!" Steve snapped, eyes haunted. "But I have to try."

"Steve?" A cough accompanied the weak call.

Steve jerked and looked toward the door.

Dragging a hand down his cheek, Bucky fixed him with a hard stare. "Don't deny a dying woman her only comfort," he advised before leaving, footfalls echoing in the stairwell.

Anxiety gnawed at Bucky as he sat waiting on the faded sofa cushions for his friend to descend the staircase. While the pendulum counted out a heartbeat in the glass case of the grandfather clock in the corner, the sun lowered itself through the clouds, disappearing behind the western horizon. October gloom crept on ancient limbs through the heavy curtains which framed the slim window pane glass and Bucky alternated his glance between the staircase and the shadows lengthening on the walls.

Eventually, the noise of the bedroom door opening and closing echoed in the hallway above him and Bucky stood, expecting Steve to ticking clock in the corner almost masked the sniffles at the top of the stairs. Almost. Bucky waited until the ever present noise of the clock's cogs and gears was the only thing he could hear before he mounted the steps. Steve was seated at the top, a picture of defeat-skinny elbows propped on knobby knees, thin cheeks resting on bony knuckles. His red rimmed eyes stayed in their downward position, not once flicking over to Bucky, even as the other man wordlessly sank to sit beside him. For a time, they simply existed in the quiet twilight, neither speaking nor moving. When a horrible coughing fit behind the bedroom door broke the spell, Bucky lifted his hand and settled it along the sharp edge of Steve's shoulder blade.

"Would you like me to get the doctor?" he inquired, voice low.

Steve shook his head slowly, strands of hair sliding across his forehead. "I...I can't afford it." He glanced away, cheeks burning in shame.

Bucky opened his mouth to offer to pay the bill, but Steve interrupted him. "It wouldn't help anyway," he cleared his throat, jutting his chin out defiantly, shoving down his embarrassment and replacing it with a justification. "The last time he was here, he said," Steve licked his lips, already losing his temporary bravado, "He said there wasn't much he could do for her. And that was weeks ago." He bowed his head, lacing his fingers together and cupping the back of his skull with his linked hands. When he next spoke, his voice was a muffled whisper.

"What kind of a person does it make me to wish that it was all over for her already?" He raised tortured eyes at Bucky, the weight of his confession evident in his pained expression.

"The kind who can't bear to watch someone they love suffer," Bucky returned firmly.

Steve's gaze sharpened, scrutinizing Bucky's face, searching for the truth of his assessment. Bucky stared back unflinchingly. Finally, Steve's eyes softened as if he had found what he was looking for and the relief overwhelmed him. The corner of his mouth curling upward, Bucky tightened his grip on Steve's shoulder.


	14. Cigarettes

Thank you so much to everyone who's given me prompts and requests! They make me sooo super happy! I can't wait to write them all! :) I just have to wait until I stop putting in so many hours at work :P Last week, I logged more hours than either one of my supervisors O_o

* * *

i.

Bucky is fourteen when he smokes his first cigarette. It's 1931. America is in financial trouble and evidence is everywhere. Too many people without jobs, without food, without hope. Everything is somber and gray and dirty.

He is wandering the streets, skipping school and feeling the hunger like a live animal in his belly. He wears his cap at a jaunty angle, daring the world to take a swing at his youthful attitude of defiance.

There's a couple of tired looking men leaning against the brick skeleton of what used to be a flourishing business. They stare at him and he stares right back. The defeat in their eyes bounces and reflects off the adolescent anger in his. That's when they wearily wave him over and pass him a cigarette, lighting it for him with exhaustion clinging to their movements.

He accepts it with a thrill of rebellion, knowing what his folks would say if they caught him. His first puff makes him gag but he gets the hang of it quickly. It makes the men smile but they don't look any less tired.

The cigarette is clamped between his teeth as he swaggers back the way he came, feeling mature and invincible with his acquisition. One or two older women raise a disapproving eyebrow in his direction and he tallies those up like points in his head. But for the most part, people ignore him, too wrapped up in their own troubles to notice a sight becoming too common too soon.

By the time he reaches Steve's tiny house, the cigarette is still burning and Bucky is happy it is. Without bothering to knock, he charges up the steps and heads for Steve's bedroom. The smell of sickness thickens the air but it's so familiar he barely notices. Steve is lying limp on the mattress, cheeks flushed and skin sticky with sweat.

Bucky plops down on the bed and shows Steve his prize. Steve's eyes widen at the forbidden object. Bucky tells him how great it is. How grown up it is. What he doesn't know how to put into words is that when he smokes, it makes him feel like he's got some way of getting back at the universe that's knocked his entire country to its knees.

Steve does anything Bucky does, like his own little shadow. This is no different. Weakly raising himself to his elbows, Steve reaches out a bony arm and Bucky places the smouldering cigarette in his sweaty palm.

It damn near kills Steve.

He starts coughing. And doesn't stop. Bucky laughs at the beginning, thumping his friend's skinny back. But the cough morphs into deep, painful, chest-heaving hacks that steals Steve's ability to breathe. His face turns the wrong color, eyes watery and filled with fear. Alarm quashes Bucky's ignorance and he realizes something is wrong. Panic follows.

Steve's mom is at work and his dad's been dead for years. The house to the left is recently empty and the one on the right holds an Irish family who can't speak a word of English. Bucky is alone with a slowly dying Steve and they're both terrified.

When Sarah Rogers unexpectedly bursts into the room, Bucky rethinks his decision that miracles are something he only hears about in church. She grabs the nebulizer from the dresser, adds the epinephrine, and guides the tube into Steve's gasping mouth. Bucky stands to the side, with a few frightened tears slipping down his cheeks, while she coaches Steve on how to breathe.

As soon as Steve can breathe again, when he's not gasping or coughing or _dying_ anymore, Sarah eases him back against the pillows. Once he's lying down, she reaches to pull the blankets over him. And freezes when she finds the cigarette stump clutched in his thin fingers. She easily removes it and whirls on Bucky, demanding to know where he got it and what in the world was he thinking bringing it to Steve?

Bucky stutters his way through a teary explanation and apology. It's only when he swears that he'll never smoke another cigarette for as long as he lives, cross his heart, that Sarah's face softens and she guides him downstairs, allowing Steve to get some much needed rest. She sits Bucky at the table, feeds him bread and soup, and quietly warns him of the effects smoke has on Steve's fragile lungs. Bucky picks at his dinner, eyes downcast, and makes himself a promise that he'll never smoke again.

ii.

He breaks his promise five years later. He got a new job, one down by the docks. Cigarettes are as common a sight as fish down there and he wants to fit in. He never buys his own. Goodness knows, he's barely got enough money for food, let alone smokes. But someone's always got an extra one he can bum and he stands in a clump with the rest of them, inhaling and exhaling until they drop the stubs in the piles of ash at their feet.

Whenever he's been smoking on the job, he doesn't go home. His parents, good religious people that they are, would throw him out for sure and he still needs that roof over his head. It's cheaper than trying to find his own place. On the days when he's had a cigarette or two at work, he heads over to Steve's house. The stench of tobacco is thick on his breath and stays on his clothes but it's so familiar by now, Steve doesn't even comment on it. Steve stifles a small cough or two and Bucky makes sure not to stand too close while they discuss recent sports news.

It becomes a regular habit and he starts looking forward to it. He manages to keep it a secret from his parents, and it doesn't bother Steve, so he keeps doing it. Until America enters the war and he trains to become a sergeant.

iii.

It's been two years since his last smoke and Bucky thinks he would trade his own mother for one right now. It's February in Austria and the snow is up to his thighs. The cold has soaked through his uniform and he can hardly feel his legs to wrestle them through the snow drift. It's been like this for days. Nothing but marching through the cold. Chewing on stale biscuits in the cold. Standing watch in the cold. Wishing for sleep in the cold. Always cold.

He's at the head of the line, forging a path through the snow for his men to follow. The snow is thick and it hinders their progress but they have to press forward if they're going to have any chance of getting to the next town before the Nazis do. The sun is sinking lower and Bucky wants to shoot it already, if only to stop its teasing descent. Or maybe he wants to shoot himself. It's hard to tell. The cold makes it hard to think.

A hidden tree root catches his foot and he falls face first into a snow bank. The snow stings his bare skin and his shivers increase in intensity. A dark hand on his bicep pulls him up and he nods gratefully to Jones. The man gives him a quick flash of white teeth and they move on.

The march is even more torturous after his fall. He can feel the snow that slipped down his collar melting between his clothes and his skin. It's chaffing and freezing cold and no amount of squirming will relieve the intense discomfort. The sun is only a memory now, darkness eating up their surroundings. The temperature plunges further and Bucky's limbs are becoming numb.

He allows a couple hours to pass, a few more miles underfoot, before giving the orders to make camp for the night. His men gratefully halt, pulling out tins of food and rolling out sleeping bags. After they've choked down their unappetizing dinner, Bucky volunteers to take the first watch. His damp uniform won't allow him to sleep anyway.

A sort of silence falls over the woods and Bucky wonders if he'll freeze to death where he stands. Wouldn't that be a sight for his men to wake to in the morning? Someone stirs behind him, fabric rustling and snow crunching. He looks over his shoulder and is surprised to see Morita shuffling toward him.

Bucky waits for the other man to speak. He never does. He simply holds up a cigarette, which Bucky knows for a fact to be the last one in their whole company. Bucky hesitates and Morita sighs before grabbing his hand and slapping the cigarette into it. When Bucky's fingers finally curl around it, Morita pulls a matchbox out and strikes the match. Once the flame catches, he gives it to Bucky.

The cigarette hisses as it catches fire. Bucky takes a long drag and the heat rushes through his entire body. He doesn't say thanks but he doesn't have to. Morita gives him a nod before returning to his sleeping bag.

Now it's just Bucky and his cigarette. It's the only thing standing between him and death.

iv.

The soldier will not smoke. He will not drink. He will not have sex. He will complete his mission. That is his purpose. That is his focus. He will not become distracted. Distraction leads to failure and failure must be punished.

v.

When he smokes again, he doesn't even know why he does it. Maybe he does it just because he can.

He's in London, at least for the moment. He'll be moving on soon. Staying in one place for too long is too risky. He'll keep heading east, the direction he's been going. Perhaps he'll go to France next, or Germany.

The sky is melting, coming down in a light drizzle. It leaves a mist on his ball cap and he ducks his head into his jacket to avoid the moisture. He has nowhere to be and all the time to get there. The lack of a destination, of a deadline, a mission, is both disconcerting and freeing. It's a dilemma he's become accustomed to.

It's dry in the shop when he steps inside to escape the damp. He pretends to peruse the merchandise offered but his eye is on the display of cigarette cartons lined behind the counter. After a few more minutes of faking interest in the rest of the store, he strides up to the counter, points to the Pall Mall and slaps a £5 note in front of the cashier.

Outside in the rain, the tip of his cigarette glows softly. He puffs on it slowly, feeling the tug of half-forgotten memories stirring in his mind. There are impressions of it being a forbidden activity, of it saving a life, of it nearly ending one. A sick child with blond hair and a mother doing everything she can to save him. A promise made and broken. It's all there, just below the surface. So close. He can almost touch them, these remnants of a life lived and now gone. Of someone he used to be.

He drops the butt and grinds it into the asphalt.


	15. Puppy

Apparently all work and no play makes SolarRose a very disturbed girl. Warnings for non-graphic animal death. :( I know, I hate myself for writing it.

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July 11, 1931 was hot. The merciless sun beat down unrelentingly on New York City. Sent outside of cramped apartments by irritated parents tired of restless boys underfoot, Steve and Bucky wandered the streets in search of amusement. They had the city to themselves, as most of its inhabitants were indoors, staring at their laboring ceiling fans, willing them to beat off the heat. Sounds and smells drifted out of open windows, kept unlatched in futile hopes of a breeze.

As they trudged down deserted roads, Bucky found a stick to swat stray pieces of gravel with, while Steve chattered beside him about how happy he was that he was now recently thirteen and therefore only one year younger than Bucky instead of the two Bucky had held over his head for the past six months. A few blocks later, Steve was exhausted and they found a nice spot in a shaded alley to rest. In an attempt to better cool off, Bucky peeled off his loafers and socks, and Steve rolled up his sleeves.

Just as Bucky was fingering the last penny in his pocket and debating whether he should spend it on a bit of candy for an afternoon snack, Steve jumped up from their chosen refuge and hurried further into the alley. Confused, but never one to be left behind, Bucky followed him. He discovered the source of Steve's sudden departure to be a scrawny puppy. The pup was a pitiful little thing, bones showing beneath the matted tangle of dirty gold fur. Steve scooped the young dog into his arms and declared it his own belated birthday present. It squirmed in his arms and licked his nose and Steve's grin had never been wider.

The sun was dipping into the horizon before Bucky and Steve realized they had been out far too long and had missed supper while playing with their new friend. Steve determinedly hoisted the puppy up and set out for home. His mother was not thrilled to see what he brought home. But when Steve begged her if he could please keep Reid (named after the Lone Ranger) as his birthday present, Sarah immediately relented, feeling a rush of guilt stemming from the fact that she had been unable to afford a proper present for her son a week ago, and allowed the pup to be kept for the night.

One night turned into the next day and the next and the next and the one after that, until Reid was Steve's steady companion. In the morning, Reid was fed a chunk of bread from Steve's own hand. During the afternoon hours, Steve would shoot his marbles across the sidewalk and Reid would happily chase them. At night, Reid curled up on Steve's mattress, Steve's arm around him, even when the temperature in the tiny bedroom was unbearably hot.

The Barnes invited Sarah and her son over for dinner after church a couple weeks later. Steve was allowed to bring Reid along, upon the condition that the puppy would remain outside. The boys obligingly followed the rule and sat in the heat on the front porch to keep Reid company. Bucky ran inside for a moment to retrieve a more suitable ball they could use to play fetch. It was as he was pounding up the staircase to his room that he happened to hear what the adults were talking about in the living room. And what he heard made him freeze where he was. His father was telling Mrs. Rogers to get rid of the dog, claiming that the creature was an expense she couldn't afford. And suddenly, Bucky gained a horrible perspective he never wanted to have.

Bucky didn't bring the promised ball. Instead, he returned to the porch, hands jammed in his pockets and glumly told his best friend exactly what he had overheard. Steve immediately leaped up, grabbed Reid to his chest and protested with tears in his eyes. Bucky repeated his father's words and Steve couldn't stand the idea of burdening his mother further. A few moments of thought and then he hatched a brilliant plan, to which he swore Bucky to secrecy.

When the adults came to collect their children for dinner, Bucky mournfully related to them how Reid had run away. Steve's downcast eyes and steady silence reinforced the tale and his mother gave him a comforting hug, while Bucky's father murmured under his breath about how it was for the best. After supper, Steve and Bucky stole outside and raced down the block to where Reid was carefully concealed in an old box. Steve patted the inquiring nose that nudged him and promised to return in the morning with breakfast.

As the days passed, Bucky began to notice Steve looking a bit thinner than before. And when the boys went to play with their forbidden pal and Steve pulled a piece of boiled chicken from his pocket to feed the puppy, Bucky knew why. He again suggested that perhaps it would be better if they released the pup for good. Steve's responded with teary eyes and the proclamation that Reid was his best friend. Such a statement provoked an irrational surge of jealousy in Bucky and he stormed back to his house, slamming the door behind him.

He stayed awake that night, kneeling on his window seat and formulating a scheme on how to reinstate his status as Steve Rogers' best friend. The opportunity came sooner than he could have imagined. The next day, Steve was unable to come outside to play, as the doctor was giving him a check up. Without wasting a moment, Bucky sprinted to the alley and grabbed the box containing his rival. With the package secured under his arm, he began a long trek across the city, intent on dumping the puppy out in unfamiliar territory and then leaving it there to fend for itself. As he walked, he told himself that he was doing it for Steve. With Reid gone, there was no need for Steve to cut his food portions in half. Steve would stop getting skinny, the doctor wouldn't have to come, and Bucky and Steve could walk empty streets, swinging sticks at rocks and chatting about their age difference.

When he had gone a good distance, he knelt, setting the box on the road before him. Pulling back the flaps with resolve, he reached in and tugged the pup out. He gave it a push and sent it scurrying up the street. Gathering the empty box under his arm, he nodded, his work done. A rush of satisfaction overtook him and he set off for home. But as he walked, his mind insisted on picturing Steve's face upon discovering the dog's absence until he couldn't stand it any longer. He turned around and spent an hour searching the streets for the wandering puppy. He finally located Reid, put him back in his box and rushed to return him to his proper place.

The first thing Steve wanted to do the following morning was visit Reid. As Bucky watched Steve laugh over Reid's enthusiastic antics, he knew he'd made the right decision. Instead of competing with the dog for Steve's attention, Bucky simply inserted himself into their playtime. He even attempted to teach Reid some tricks, but the puppy was not a good student. Neither boy minded too much though since Reid played fetch just fine.

Everything changed on a rainy morning in August. At his mother's insistence, Bucky slapped a cap over his head before heading out into the weather. He turned down the alley, eager to have some time to work with Reid on the proper way for a dog to roll over. His enthusiasm drained away when he caught sight of two figures through the downpour. Pete Krueger and Harold Hatcher were older than Bucky. They were all of sixteen and meaner than any other boys on the block. Praying that the rain hid his movements, Bucky slipped quickly down the alley and snatched Reid's box. The startled pup gave a yelp, which alerted the other teens to his presence.

Bucky shrank away from them as they sauntered toward him. They easily corralled him into a position where his back was to the wall of the house behind him and they blocked off his escape to either end of the alley. They questioned him about the box he was holding. He reflexively gripped it tighter, which only made them want it more. Pete's bigger hands grabbed it away from him and when he tried to reclaim it, Harold gave him a hard shove. Bucky's shoes slipped on the wet pavement and he landed on his rear in a puddle, much to Harold's amusement. Meanwhile, Pete greedily dug into the box. He yanked Reid out by the scruff of his neck and Bucky scrambled to his feet, demanding that the older boy release the dog.

Pete's eyes took on a wicked gleam and he told Bucky that strays were filthy and just a waste of food. Bucky argued that Reid was not a stray, that he belonged to Bucky and Steve. Pete sneered at him and shook the puppy mockingly, holding it just out of Bucky's reaching arms. As Bucky's attempts to rescue the dog became more frantic, Pete's cruel malice grew and he laughed at the smaller boy's distress. Until Bucky planted a fist in his stomach. Then Pete howled in pain and threw the puppy away as he bent over his abdomen. The pup gave a cry as it flew through the air before it collided with the brick wall of the opposing house. Immediately, Bucky turned to retrieve Reid. But before he got more than a step away, a hand latched onto his collar and yanked him back. Harold hit his face once in retribution for Pete before the two bullies left the alley in search of prey that didn't fight back.

Letting the blood drip from his nose, Bucky focused all his attention on the puppy, which had yet to stir. When Bucky knelt beside the animal, he was horrified to find its head twisted in an unnatural way. With shaking hands, he maneuvered the head into the correct position in some hope of fixing what was so horribly wrong. But Reid was dead and Bucky didn't save him and what in the world was he supposed to do now?

Gently, Bucky picked up the pup, pulling it close to his chest as he sat in the rain. He sat and shivered for an hour, just holding Reid's body. And then he shivered some more when he realized he was going to have to tell Steve what happened.

* * *

P.S. Which is better: one shots with dialogue or one shots without?


	16. Lunch

Hello, fanfiction world! Long time no see. After an unexpected break from writing, I am back due to the wonderful encouragement of Bree Colbern :)

This fic is in response to a request by Nocx. I hope it's what you were looking for!

(Bucky is 16 and Steve is 15 in this story)

* * *

"So what do you want, Steve?" Bucky questioned, stepping into the diner.

Steve followed at a more reserved pace as his friend strode straight for the stools lined up at the bar. Bucky easily claimed a seat, nonchalantly propping his elbow on the counter, thereby declaring the space as his own. When the attractive young waitress glanced his way, he gave her a casual wink, which earned him a coy smile and her full attention. As Steve climbed onto the stool beside him, Bucky gestured to the menu.

"What do you recommend, doll?" he asked the diner employee.

She gave a delicate shrug with her left shoulder and tossed a curl of blond hair over her shoulder flirtatiously.

"I'm trying to decide between the corned beef and cabbage or a hamber." Bucky leaned forward. "Either of those good today?"

"Sure," the girl answered.

"Which one should I have, Steve?" Bucky asked without even looking at him.

Steve shifted in his chair. "Are you sure we can afford this?"

Bucky rolled his eyes and reluctantly turned away from the pretty young woman in front of him to look at Steve. "Don't blow your wig. I just got paid today." He patted his pocket, where his well earned money rested. "We're here to eat, not to worry about the amount of dough we do or don't have."

Steve frowned but by then, Bucky had already swiveled back around. "So Miss…" he trailed off expectantly.

"Ruth," the waitress eagerly supplied.

"Ruth," Bucky repeated with a wide smile. "Would you be so kind as to serve me up some of that corned beef there." He pointed at the sign hanging on the wall.

"I'd be happy to," she replied with a coquettish lilt in her voice.

Bucky elbowed Steve in the ribs. Steve grimaced and glared at his friend. Tilting his head at Ruth, Bucky said, "She doesn't have all day, Steve. Tell her what you'd like to have."

"I'm not really hungry," Steve answered truthfully, glancing around the little restaurant.

Bucky sighed. "Just give him a grilled cheese."

Ruth nodded and stepped away to get their order taken care of. Bucky watched her go and then turned to Steve once more. "She's quite the looker, isn't she?"

"Yeah, I guess," Steve replied, distracted by the scene he could see through the window.

Two teenagers were cornering a third one, forcing him off the sidewalk, around to the back of the diner, out of sight. Steve straightened in his chair, alarmed.

"Do you think I should ask her to the dance this friday?" Bucky queried, eyes sliding back to Ruth.

"I'll be back." Steve abruptly jumped off his stool and hastily exited the building.

"Steve," Bucky called after him. But the door swinging shut was the only response he received.

"Where did your friend go?" Ruth questioned, returning to the spot where Bucky sat.

"I don't know," Bucky told her. He then planted his arms on the countertop and asked, "Would a pretty thing like you be interested in going dancing with a fella like me on friday night?"

Ruth agreed enthusiastically just as the food was finished. She brought the prepared plates to Bucky, then situated herself in front of him. Between bites, Bucky had a nice conversation with her about the food, the latest radio programs, and the most recent cartoon in the theater. Finally, a new customer pulled Ruth away and it was only then that Bucky took stock of his surroundings. He glanced at the plate next to his and frowned. Steve's sandwich was a sad picture of cold bread and drooping cheese. Bucky glanced around the diner's interior. But Steve was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, he wrapped his friend's supper in a napkin and put it in his coat pocket. After pulling out the appropriate amount, Bucky laid some money on the counter and headed for the door.

"Aren't you even going to say goodbye?" Ruth called after him.

"I'll see you Friday," Bucky offered.

Ruth's pouting lips weren't enough to stop him from ducking out the door. He stepped into the sunshine and glanced up and down the street for Steve. But there was no skinny, blonde, suspender-wearing asthmatic in either direction. Coming to the conclusion that Steve must have decided to go back to his house, Bucky began walking that way. But something caught his eye. A drop of liquid reflecting the sun sparkled to the side of his shoe and he bent down to examine it. The red color left no doubt as to what the substance was. Straightening, he surveyed the ground for more. A couple more spatters left a trail to the alley behind the diner and Bucky followed the tracks until he found what he feared he might.

Steve was sitting against the back wall of the restaurant, knees forming a barrier in front of his chest, while his hands plugged his bleeding nose. Bucky immediately knelt beside him. Apparently focused on his nose to the point of excluding all else, Steve startled at Bucky's arrival.

"Easy, it's only me," Bucky assured.

Steve relaxed minutely while still maintaining his defensive posture.

"What happened?" Bucky inquired, leaning forward to inspect his friend for damage.

"Buthin'," Steve mumbled with pinched nostrils.

"Did he hurt you?" Bucky asked, temper rising.

"Dey," Steve tiredly corrected.

"They?" Bucky clarified.

Steve nodded. "Two ob dem."

"Let me see." Bucky reached forward.

"No!" Steve jerked away.

"Steve..." Bucky sighed.

Steve mutinously scooted a few inches further out of reach.

"Steve," Bucky repeated, harsher this time.

"I'b find," Steve insisted, glaring at him.

"Of course you are," Bucky sarcastically agreed.

He stood and pretended to be interested in something out on the street. When Steve turned to look at what he assumed had captured his friend's attention, Bucky swooped down and snatched his wrist. Steve instantly resisted. Bucky tugged on it.

"Lebbe go," Steve demanded.

"Show me," Bucky commanded.

"No," Steve refused.

"Let me see your nose," Bucky growled, yanking hard on Steve's wrist.

Steve winced and was forced to yield to Bucky's insistence. Bucky crouched in front of him, grabbing his chin and tilting his head up. Although it was bleeding profusely, the nose was straight, not crooked. Whoever had punched Steve hadn't done it hard enough to break his nose, for which Bucky was grateful. He released Steve, more gently than he'd captured him. Steve turned his face away.

"Where's your handkerchief?" Bucky asked quietly.

Steve hesitated before reluctantly uncurling his legs so he could reach the pocket in his pants. When he did, Bucky was able to see that the thugs who had beaten Steve's face had also roughed him up elsewhere. His shirt was rumpled, the collar sliding aside to reveal a bruise already forming on his clavicle. There was a tear in the knee of his trousers and one of the buckles to his suspenders had somehow been broken. Bucky sucked in a sharp breath. A flush crept over Steve's cheeks before he hid them behind the kerchief he pressed against his nose.

"Geez, Steve. You really know how to find trouble, don't you?" Bucky said sympathetically.

"I basn' twying to ged bead up," Steve defended.

Bucky frowned. "Well what did you think was going to happen when you tried taking on two guys?"

"I didn' stard the fighd," Steve bristled.

"Let me guess. You were trying to help someone." Bucky crossed his arms.

Steve glowered silently at him over the top of the tissue. Exasperated, Bucky threw his hands out.

"I don't get it, Steve. Why do you do it? Why do you always have to get involved in stuff like this?" Bucky questioned, arms moving to encompass the alley, Steve's dirty clothes and the blood streaming from his nose. Steve opened his mouth to launch a defense but Bucky wasn't finished. "It's not like you ever help anyone anyway. All you end up doing is taking the whooping meant for them."

Steve's eyes darkened with hurt before sparking in anger. "Ad leasd I twy."

"And a fat lot of good it does," Bucky scoffed.

Ripping away the handkerchief, Steve glared furiously at Bucky. "I never asked for your opinion."

Bucky blinked at the sudden outburst, wavering between offense and empathy.

"Or your help," Steve added sullenly.

Temper winning out, Bucky snapped, "Then I won't give it."

He turned his back on Steve and stomped out of the alleyway. When no voice called him back, he felt justified in crossing the city alone and going straight into his house. He slammed the door and didn't regret it either. But when he ripped his coat off and threw it over the back of the chair at the kitchen table and the wrapped sandwich tumbled out of his pocket to land with a dull thump on the linoleum, all his self-righteous indignation slipped away like the cheese spilling over the crust of the bread. Quickly, Bucky put his coat back on and, as an afterthought, scooped up the fallen lunch and carefully rewrapped it for transportation.

After climbing the stairs to Steve's back door, he paused before knocking. There was no answer and for a moment, he panicked, imagining that Steve had gotten into another fight on the way home. Just as he spun on his heel to launch a rescue mission, the door was cracked open and Steve's face appeared. He looked worse than when Bucky had first found him. A black eye was manifesting in a smear of maroon circling his left eye and the top of his cheekbone, while dried blood was crusted around his nostrils and the edge of his lip. He didn't seem surprised to see his friend, his expression one of resignation.

"What are you doing here?" he sighed.

Bucky swallowed and awkwardly held out the napkin covered peace offering. "You forgot your lunch."

Steve tilted his head and Bucky thought for sure he would reject it. Instead, Steve took the sandwich from his hands.

"Thanks, Buck," he mumbled, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile.

"Waste not, want not." Bucky shrugged self-consciously.

Steve acknowledged the idiom with a wry chuckle. Bucky laughed along with him, sensing their equilibrium returning.

"You know, I was going to see if I could find you a girl for Friday, maybe have you tag along. But now that I see your face, I'm having second thoughts," Bucky teased lightly.

"At least I have a reason for looking like this. What's your excuse?" Steve bantered back.

"Which one of us already has a date the dance?" Bucky reminded smugly.

Unable to argue with the truth, Steve just laughed softly.

"Honestly, Steve, you've got a little something on your face…" Bucky hinted, pointing to his own nose.

Steve sighed. "I know. I can't seem to get it all off."

"Would you mind if I tried?" Bucky offered, putting as much nonchalance into his voice as possible.

Steve considered the proposition. Finally, he swung the door wider in invitation. Bucky crossed the threshold and quietly closed the door. He pointed into the dining room.

"Sit, Steve."

"But-" Steve started.

"Sit," Bucky repeated in a tone that left no room for protests.

Steve obediently went to the table and selected a seat. In the kitchen, Bucky opened a drawer and pulled out two dishcloths. Then, he retrieved a spoon from the silverware collection and used it to chip away a chunk of ice from the bottom of the icebox. He wrapped the ice in one of the rags and took it to the dining room.

"Hold this," Bucky instructed.

Well accustomed to the practice, Steve placed the ice on the swelling skin around his eye. Once he'd done so, Bucky returned to the kitchen. He wet the second washcloth under the faucet before rejoining Steve. He hooked an ankle behind the chair next to Steve's, dragging it closer. He sat on it and leaned forward to begin the process of cleaning the blood from Steve's face. Steve watched him through his one good eye as Bucky expertly dabbed the rag against his nose and mouth. When all the blood was gone, Bucky tossed the stained rag onto the tabletop. He examined his handiwork and, satisfied, nodded once.

"There you go, pal. Good as new," he declared.

"Almost," Steve corrected ruefully, pulling the ice away from his eye.

"Nu-uh. Keep that on there," Bucky insisted, directing Steve's hand back into its original position. "Or you'll be in no shape to go out Friday."

Steve groaned. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't want to go to the dance?"

"What are you talking about? Everyone wants to dance," Bucky countered.

Steve rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry, Steve. I'll find you a date," Bucky promised.

"I don't even have the right clothes for it," Steve mumbled, fingering the busted buckle of his suspenders.

"You can borrow mine," Bucky brightly answered. "Now, no more excuses. We're going and we're going to have a good time."

"If you say so," Steve accepted with a long-suffering smile.

"We always do, don't we?" Bucky grinned.


	17. Breath

I've had this idea in my head for a while and even though it didn't come out in quite the way I first envisioned it would, I'm glad it's finally out in the open and not bouncing around in the confines of my mind anymore. Also, I realized I haven't had any first person pov since chap 1. So I thought, why not do it again?

Bucky's 14 and Steve's 13.

* * *

I wake to a hand grabbing my shoulder and shaking me roughly. My first instinct is to swat it with my pillow. I do so and then roll over, turning my back on the person who interrupted my sleep. The hand comes back. I growl drowsily, hoping the sound is more of a deterrent than the pillow was. When the shaking starts again, it's more insistent, rattling my teeth inside my skull and causing the thin blanket to slip off my quaking body. Well past the threshold of annoyance, I flip over and snap, "Leave me alone, Steve."

The next instant, I'm bolt upright in bed and now, I'm the one grabbing his shoulder. He's not breathing. If I hadn't been so focused on my own slumber I would have noticed sooner. His chest jerks in the tiniest of motions but I can tell it's his own desperate reflexes causing the spasms, not the actual expansion of his lungs. His mouth opens and closes in sporadic, frantic attempts to suck in oxygen.

Quickly, I launch myself off the mattress and kneel in front of him. Even the dim light of my sparse bedroom can't hide the shine of naked panic in his eyes. His bony fingers fly to his throat and he claws desperately at it, as if he can scratch through the skin to yank out the mucus clogging his airways.

"Easy, Steve, calm down," I soothe, dragging his hand away from his neck.

My words have no effect on him. His efforts only increase in intensity, pupils blown wide in terror.

"Hey, hey, Steve, you need to calm yourself. Okay?" I hastily gather my composure, drawing from my memory of the single other time I've seen him have an episode like this. Of course at that time, we were at his house and his mother stayed with him just long enough to quiet him before rushing to get his inhaler. He doesn't have his inhaler here.

"Alright, pal," I take his hands, in spite of how he fights me for control of them, and position them on my chest. His left hand goes on the right side of my sternum, his right I place on the left side. "Let me show you how it's done." I take an exaggerated breath in.

As my lungs fill, my chest rises and so do his hands. When I exhale, they sink as my chest does.

"You feel that?" I repeat the slow breaths. "Now listen." This time, when I breathe, I do it through my mouth, not my nose. It's louder this way.

Steve seems mesmerized by the movement of his hands and his frenzied struggles start fading. I maintain the same steady rhythm of breath, extending my inhales and exhales, allowing the noise of them to fill the room. Gradually, whether he's aware of it or not, Steve begins to copy me. His hysteria ebbs and finally, _finally_ , he draws a breath. The relief is evident in his expression and he tries to gulp in several more. The result is that he starts choking again. I shake my head and grab his wrists, holding them to my chest.

"Not that fast, Steve. Slower. Like me," I instruct, never changing the pace of my breathing.

Steve obediently forces himself to take the deeper, slower breaths. I smile approvingly.

"There you go. That's better, isn't it?" I encourage.

He nods and the action dislodges a stray tear. Whether it's one of relief or a leftover trace of panic doesn't matter. We stay that way for some time, breathing steadily in perfect synchrony. In and out, inhale and exhale, acquisition of oxygen and then the release. Once I'm satisfied he's caught the hang of it, I release his hands and they eventually slide off my chest.

"You okay?" I question quietly.

He just looks at me like I saved his life. And then I realize that I did. Suddenly uncomfortable, I shift my weight before reaching up and ruffling his hair.

"Only you would forget how to breathe," I mumble.

He ducks out from beneath my palm, a small smile just barely visible on the edges of his lips.

"Do you think you'll be able to go back to sleep?" I inquire more seriously.

Tilting his head, he considers the question. Then he answers, "Yes," before climbing onto the couch cushions that double as his bed when he sleeps over. After he pulls the blanket up to his shoulder, I reclaim my own position in bed. But now I'm facing in his direction. And I stay awake the rest of the night, listening for his breath in the quiet of the night.


	18. First

Steve never threw the first punch.

"Oh, Rogers, haven't you heard? Weren't you there? Didn't you know the headmaster was looking for you? Apparently the hospital sent someone 'round here. They had bad news to deliver, I could tell. Bad news for Rogers. Wonder what it could have been? You don't know anyone in the hospital, do you? Someone who might have gotten worse? Someone who's probably dead now?"

Broken pencil, abandoned paper, forgotten coat.  
Shouts unheeded, door left open, shoes on wet pavement.  
Driving wind, blinding rain, echoing thunder.

"Come on, Rogers. It was just a joke. Can't a fellow tell a joke now and again?"

Long road, winding road, endless road.  
Gasped breath, bent double, coughing fit.  
One name, call the doctor, please wait.

"Only a joke, Rogers."

She's here. She's fine. She's alright.  
Heart beating, lungs breathing, hands holding.  
Nothing's happened, nothing's wrong, nothing to be scared of.

"Just a joke."

Fist flown, punch thrown, temper blown.  
Blood rushing, stains on shirt, red and brown.  
Larger hands, bigger hands, separating hands.

"Rogers started it! He hit me first!"

Steve never throws the first punch-except the one time he did.

* * *

( _If that was too confusing, let me know and I'll clarify what happened._ )


End file.
